The portal opened, and a tall, blond human strode out. His gaze was sharp as lightning, his arms powerful, and he carried the bearing of a man who could seize a great dragon barehanded.
The Dragonborn walked the world, his pitch-black ebony armor covered in claw-scratches, as if he'd just survived a legendary battle spoken of across the seas. The Company couldn't help but stare. His heroic, unrestrained courage stirred admiration in every heart—no introductions were needed; everyone already knew he was an extraordinary champion.
Dumbledore stepped forward to greet him. "Dragonborn, thank you for coming."
The towering, fierce Nord grinned, a little simple and earnest. "Where's the dragon?"
"Up ahead, in the mountain." Dumbledore pointed toward the dark smoke curling around the gates of the Lonely Mountain.
The Dragonborn nodded, eyes fixed on the black mouth of the entrance—surely the dragon's lair. He would catch up to it and kill it cleanly, to the last.
"Let's go. Leave the civilians here."
But Dumbledore said, "They aren't civilians. They're warriors of the Lonely Mountain."
The Dragonborn swept his gaze across the expedition. Every dwarf he looked at with those blue eyes felt the oppressive urgency of being caught in a dragon's talons.
"Who are you?" The heir of the Lonely Mountain was small of stature, yet his presence was as solemn and weighty as Erebor itself.
The Dragonborn only gave him a brief nod, clearly not interested in chatting, then turned back to Dumbledore. "That short one—his soul is steeped in the dragon's poison. He's going to become arrogant and greedy."
"Ah, my dear friend, that is exactly what troubles me," Dumbledore sighed.
"I can teach him the Nord Way of the Voice—the discipline Paarthurnax used to overcome draconic nature, to bring a soul stained by lust for power back to stillness."
Dumbledore was delighted. "Then I'll be in your debt."
The Dragonborn set off, and the Company followed his stride, marching toward the Gates of Erebor nestled between the two southern spurs of the Lonely Mountain.
The sky was brightening. A flock of crows circled and cried along the shoulder of the mountain's main peak.
The Running River surged out of the cavern, scouring the riverbed stones, throwing up foam like boiling white froth, then splitting into two branches that curled around the ruins of Dale. A shrieking wind blew from that desolate wreck of a city—the place where tragedy had once unfolded. Air flowed through the hollow windows and doorways of collapsed walls, wailing and moaning. The land was a smear of scorched earth strewn with ash; charred stumps jutted up like dead bones, clawing at the distant stars, moon, and sun.
The dwarves and hobbit trembled faintly.
Even the bravest, facing a world that looked as if a natural catastrophe had butchered it, had to shiver at the cruelty of fate.
Thorin and his old companions remembered how they had fled in panic under the threat of dragonfire. They pointed at their broken homeland: there had been bustling prosperity there; there the great bell had rung every day; there craftsmen had once walked the streets adorned in gold and silver; there the hillsides had roared with wagons bringing grain to the Lonely Mountain.
A dragon.
A beast that scourged the earth and drowned prosperity.
Step by step, they followed the river channel toward the main gate. The smoky "breath" spilling from within grew clearer, and the air carried a faint stink of sulfur and rotting flesh.
"That dragon's still alive—alive and well," a dwarf warrior stammered.
"If we go through that gate and it breathes fire once, there won't even be anywhere to hide."
"We go in as living men, and we come out as ash and bone."
Their voices grew darker, more hopeless by the second.
"Maybe we should send someone in to scout first. Mr. Baggins… can you do it?"
"I—I don't know," Bilbo said.
The Dragonborn stood at the river's source, arms folded across his chest.
"What's wrong? He's not moving," a dwarf warrior said, puzzled.
"He's probably scared. No big deal—let's run. Forget the treasure; you only get one life."
"Yeah, yeah. Let's go back to Lake-town for a few days and figure it out properly."
Dumbledore ignored the dwarves' defeatist chatter and simply asked with a smile, "Here?"
"Mm." The Dragonborn nodded. He drew in a deep breath, chest swelling, and then unleashed a shout, low and thunderous.
Dragon Tongue from another world should have resonated with the bones of the earth—but the moment it left his throat, it awakened an echo from the Great Music itself.
Ilúvatar had already noticed his arrival, full of joy, and drew the dragon-shout into His own theme.
"Fus Ro Dah!"
[Unrelenting Force]
The vast, majestic Lonely Mountain seemed to turn into a drum, and the Dragonborn's roar became the hammer. With that single bellow, the mountains swayed and the earth answered. The Company couldn't keep their footing—people toppled over, screaming in panic.
In his sleep, the great dragon Smaug suddenly felt heaven and earth shake. A thunderous roar rolled through the mountain's belly like ten thousand cannon-blasts, rattling his organs until his whole body trembled.
Smaug roared in furious outrage: "ROAR!!!—" [What in blazes are you yelling for this early?!]
"The dragon's coming!"
"We're gonna die!"
"If we die, we die together—bury the ashes in one pit!"
The dwarves raised blades, spears, swords, and axes and swarmed into the tunnel.
"Leeroy Jenkins!!" Bilbo shrieked—pure nonsense—and charged in too. (TN: Yup... WoW Reference)
Red light flickered again and again inside the cavern, a dangerous signal that made hearts quake.
Dumbledore and the Dragonborn waited patiently at the entrance.
The dwarves' screams stretched into the depths, fading farther and lighter. After a while, the screams grew heavier again—closer, louder—and the whole pack of dwarves came bursting back out like their backsides were on fire.
"Mom! The dragon's here!"
They wished they had ten more legs as they fled. Behind them came thunderous footfalls—Smaug was crawling after them.
The dwarves tore past the Dragonborn and Dumbledore, sprinting south for their lives.
Dumbledore counted quietly: two, four, eight, ten, thirteen. One was missing—Bilbo.
Bilbo Baggins, wrapped in the Invisibility Cloak, pressed himself against the cavern wall. The dragon—like a storm of furious red wind—rushed past him. Its swaying, whipping tail carved deep gouges into the rock. Bilbo didn't dare breathe. Then Smaug reached the entrance and roared.
"ROAR!—RAAAH!"
The moment Smaug thrust his head out, the Dragonborn greeted him with a warhammer strike of savage ferocity.
The blow smashed right into the corner of Smaug's eye—hard enough to make tears spill.
Dumbledore raised his wand. First, he wanted to test whether the dragons of this world were also resistant to magic. A Conjunctivitis Curse hit Smaug's head—and sure enough, it was repelled by the dragon's hide.
Fine, then.
The old wizard used Transfiguration: the Running River's water turned into flocks of birds and burst upward in flight, swarming toward Smaug's mouth and nostrils.
Water blanketed the dragon's face at once, choking him. The current surged of its own accord toward his lungs.
Smaug erupted in rage. Dragonfire was already brewing in his chest; he vaporized the water, and scalding steam rampaged through his body, making him cough and sputter—his fire choked out.
The Dragonborn laughed. "That magic's useful." Taking advantage of Smaug's frantic head-shaking, he sprang up, seized a horn, flipped himself onto the dragon's head, and began hammering down with brutal swings.
Smaug was pinned at his own doorstep and beaten senseless. Every time he opened his mouth, the wizard stuffed him full of river water—he could barely fight back at all.
With a furious convulsion, he launched into the sky. Dumbledore hurriedly mounted his broom and gave chase after the evil dragon.
The Company ran for a long time. A vast shadow swept over the ground. They looked up and saw a rider on the dragon's head. After circling briefly in the sky, the dragon flew east.
Thorin and the others stopped, staring at one another.
"What do we do now?"
"Back to the Lonely Mountain! We're going home!"
Bilbo Baggins reached Erebor's treasure vault ahead of everyone else.
Before him lay a sea of gold—countless treasures beyond counting.
Wealth enough that generations could never spend it all.
As he wandered through the golden ocean, Bilbo's foot kicked over a small pile of coins, and from within rolled a radiant gem.
The Arkenstone.
Hearing dwarven footsteps, Bilbo stuffed the Arkenstone into the wizard's pocket. He turned—and saw an expression on Thorin's face that was utterly unfamiliar.
"Hey, Thorin… what's wrong?" Bilbo wanted to ask whether he could get his one-fourteenth share.
Thorin's features twisted under the grip of greed.
His dragon-sickness had taken hold.
"It's nothing," he said softly. "I need to… send word to Dáin. Have him bring the Iron Hills army—to protect the dwarves' wealth… to protect my gold."
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