Chapter Text
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During the Fell winter, the Shire was overrun by orcs. Bilbo's parents lost their lives in this incident, but Bilbo himself was captured and enslaved, along with others. Due to their limited skills, the hobbits were mostly assigned to work as cooks in the orc camps. The orcs had no interest in eating hobbit food, unless they meant the hobbit itself. Sadly, cannibalism was a grim reality in these camps, occurring far too frequently to provide any sense of safety. Surrounded by orcs, wargs, and the pervasive stench of death and decay, there was no solace to be found, not even a single glimpse of greenery.
Bilbo grew up captivated by stories and fables, but his favorite tale revolved around a tragic and noble dwarven prince, beloved by his people and family. This prince lost not only his home but also his literal heart to a dragon named Smaug, who ruled over the Lonely Mountain amidst a vast treasure hoard. The dragon had taken the prince's heart and transformed it into a precious jewel known as The Arkenstone, Heart of the Mountain.
Despite losing his heart and becoming obsessed with slaying the dragon who’d taken everything from him, he became a hero, earning his epithet Oakenshield for his valor in the war of Moria.
Years later, Thorin, now a king, embarked on a quest to reclaim his ancestral home and retrieve his stolen heart. Tragically, Thorin's entire company of dwarves perished in this endeavor. Thorin succeeded in slaying Smaug, but when Thorin placed the Arkenstone back into his chest, an unforeseen consequence unfolded. He transformed into a dragon himself.
Since then, the Lonely Mountain has remained impenetrable. Occasionally, a black dragon with silver streaked wings emerges, circling the mountain, breathing fire. This serves as both a warning and a confirmation of his existence. This dragon, now known as Zarakûl in the Khuzdul tongue (translated as "Silver Shadow" in Westeron), fiercely guards his treasure. Not a single coin is allowed to be taken.
Thorin II, Oakenshield, the Mountain King-in-Exile, had succumbed entirely to the curse. Consumed by the sickness of gold, he has lost his name and his identity as a dwarf. He had become the embodiment of the dragon, forever known as Zarakûl.
Bilbo's mother often concluded the story with an optimistic and somewhat romantic ending. She would tell Bilbo about the dragon patiently awaiting the arrival of his true love, who would break the stone surrounding his heart with a genuine kiss of love. Bilbo recognized his mother's inclination towards romanticism, as her stories always seemed to conclude with similar ambiguous happy endings. Perhaps it was for his benefit, and maybe even hers. Nevertheless, he cherished that story because he knew it held a kernel of truth. Though the details may have been lost to history and the dwarves who embarked on their journey, only the dragon possessed the true account. That dragon was no figment of imagination; Bilbo had witnessed its existence with his own eyes when the orc camp approached the borders of Erebor.
Rumors circulated that the orcs intended to persuade the dragon to join their army. When Bilbo witnessed the flames illuminating the night sky, his awe-struck jaw dropped in wonder. The legendary creature was no longer confined to his imagination but a tangible being of flesh and blood. Bilbo could only catch fleeting glimpses of the dragon as it soared through the heavens, exhaling bursts of fire. It was a truly magnificent sight. Clasping his hands together as if in prayer, Bilbo hoped and prayed that the noble dwarf-king still resided within the creature, ready to vanquish the audacious orcs for venturing so close to his mountain.
The prospect of Bilbo being incinerated alongside the rest of the camp loomed large, but he clung to the hope of escaping in time. A small group comprised of rebellious hobbits, elves, and dwarves had been devising plans for another escape. Perhaps amidst the chaos of the dragon's fiery assault, they could slip away through the treacherous Mirkwood and seek assistance. That was the plan the others were formulating. However, Bilbo harbored a different, almost insane, plan of his own. He was dubbed "Mad Baggins" for a reason, anyway.
It was no secret that all the captives had suffered emotional scars, each one carrying their own share of brokenness. Yet, Bilbo garnered the most pity, for he had fallen mute and seemed touched in the head after witnessing the brutal murder of his parents. It was a sorrowful transformation, as he had once been a gifted storyteller, entertaining young hobbits who gathered around him eagerly at parties, enthralled by his tales.
Even Bilbo acknowledged that his mental state was far from stable, and he could openly admit that his plan was undeniably mad. For his intended destination was none other than Erebor itself—the very lair of the dragon. It was a place he had fantasized about, although under far from ideal circumstances, yet here he stood, finally realizing his long-held dream. Trembling with a mixture of fear and awe, Bilbo watched as the colossal dragon descended from above, circling lower and lower, its imposing presence growing with each passing moment.
As the dragon touched down upon the earth, a profound tremor rippled through the ground, causing the very foundation to quiver in response. Despite the multitude of torches that illuminated the surrounding area, the dragon's colossal form remained mostly veiled in shadow, its immense size surpassing the reach of the flickering flames. The ambient light merely served to highlight certain details, and amidst the darkness, the dragon's eyes gleamed with an iridescent blue hue. These eyes, piercing and menacing, seemed to hold an ominous glint, casting an eerie and unsettling aura in the depths of the night.
Bilbo thought he might soil himself… from being equally terrified of and over the moon with the tremendous, majestic creature. The dragon was gargantuan. He could probably eat a dozen hobbits in one go as a light snack. Bilbo quaked, his knees just one startle away from crumbling beneath him.
Then the dragon’s chest began to glow... and their eyes met.
Something definitely fractured in one of Bilbo’s knees when they finally did give way. His hand flew to his wildly beating heart and his lungs refused to draw air.
He smiled.
For the first time in years, Bilbo positively beamed while gazing up at the colossal, winged embodiment of undiluted power. While his hungry eyes took in as much as they could, he missed the way the dragon stared right back as it lumbered towards them with its hooded gaze and sharp teeth on display.
The Shire was not safe, completely unprepared for its hostile fate. Hobbits were soft creatures who thrived in the sun and lived comfortable lives. And for that, they had lost their home. The Shire was no longer.
The Mirkwood was not safe, contrary to what the fellow captives hoped. It was riddled with spiders, the trees sick with darkness and dank. The Elves secret sanctuary was most likely a fool’s dream. And Bilbo refused to bet on a dream, when such terrifying reality lay before him. No, he’d bet on what was real .
The world was not safe. Overrun with orcs and other foul creatures of Shadow and Doom. While the races bickered and stayed divided, the Enemy had overwhelmed them all, one by one. Now, all the races of middle-earth, once fractured, gathered to fight the common enemy… but possibly too late.
It all depended on this dragon. For he was the last of his kind. To gain the dragon to their side would mean the calamity of all calamities. It would tip the scales in favor of the Enemy… and then all would be truly lost.
But this dragon had no cares for the politics of middle-earth, Bilbo was certain. Why would he? He was a dragon. The only thing Sauron could possibly bargain with was gold, but everyone knew that Erebor had been and still was the wealthiest city in all of middle earth.
This dragon did not need more gold, more might, or more power. He already had it all.
Unless, of course, the gold-sickness demanded he add to his hoard. But in all his time of being a dragon, Zarakûl had never descended upon any cities to plunder the precious commodity. He simply guarded his mountain.
More than likely, Bilbo would be burned alive now before he could attempt his plan. But my , he thought in a daze as the world grew strangely silent around him, what a sight to behold as I take my last breath.
Yet, contrary to expectations, the dragon did not unleash a torrent of fire. Instead, he spoke. A rumbling thundercloud of a voice, like stone giants crumbling amid battle. Bilbo’s whole spine quivered with it. “Orc filth,” he spat, “you dare bring your foul presence to my mountain. Thieves. ”
“Zarakûl!” The leader of the band was pushed forward by his cowering subordinates. Even the orcs, smartly, feared the giant, living furnace. “We come with a message from Lord Sauron.”
The dragon huffed, a small burst of flames emitting from between his sharp, gleaming teeth. He sneered, disdain dripping with every word he spoke. “Sauron, the petulant, weakling.”
The orcs hissed and growled.
The dragon grinned with venomous delight, “He has no power here or over me. These are my lands. Be gone now before I send only one of you back with a message of my own.”
The leader stepped forward with a snarl. “Lord Sauron has promised you all the gold from the cities you conquer. After the war is over, he will have it all sent to you here to add to your hoard. He sent you a gift.” The orc smiled, a grotesque display of black and yellow jagged teeth–sinister and devoid of any sincerity. Sadistic pleasure was written all over his gnarled face.
Bilbo knew that face all too well. He swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat at the sight.
“What say you, dragon?” The orc sneered.
To Bilbo’s utter horror, Zarakûl’s eyes widened, and he tilted his head with curiosity. He stepped forward, and instinct drove everyone back with yelps and panicked murmuring. Except for Bilbo, still on the ground, wide smile fading slowly as the dragon actually considered the offer.
“NO!” Bilbo screamed, voice hoarse after years of silence. He didn’t even recognize it as his own. “No please don’t!”
His fellow slaves gasped and gawked at him. A whisper of “Mad Baggins” in the air was all he caught. He should have stopped. He should have stayed silent. He should not have yelled at a dragon . Those blue, cold eyes targeted Bilbo and left him breathless with respectful terror. The torrent of desperate words within him surged forth uncontrollably. It was as if all the years of silence had accumulated, and now that he had found his voice, he could not cease its flow. His words poured forth like an unrestrained deluge in the awakening of spring, overwhelming and unstoppable.
“Please be who I hoped you’d be. Please. I have nothing left. If I’m to die here, then please let it be by your breath and burn all these monsters with me to doom! Please…” he panted, for he was consumed with true madness it seemed, “Sauron is a liar. Whatever he offers you, it is to ensnare you, O’King!”
The dragon reared back, eyes wide in genuine shock before he blinked rapidly. He seemed about to speak when the orc leader slapped Bilbo so hard that his head hit the ground with a worrying crack.
“You should have stayed mute, slave!” The orc bellowed. “I think we’re having halfling for dinner tonight,” he growled. Some orcs chuckled and others smacked their lips and dragged their nasty tongues over their filthy teeth at the thought of fresh meat.
Bilbo’s vision spotted, but he clung to consciousness with all his strength. He needed to know how it would end. He needed to know that Thorin was still in there. Such a noble king who lost so many of his kin in a hopeless fight against orcs once upon a time. He can’t , Bilbo begged in his mind, for he could no longer speak. He won’t.
“He will not be your dinner,” the dragon growled. “You are on my lands. I shall deal with you as I see fit. But…” Zarakûl lilted with a hungry grin, “as it happens, I have been thinking of finally adding to my hoard.”
Bilbo wanted to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful whimper.
Zarakûl hummed thoughtfully. “I will agree to join Sauron if… you leave me your slaves to feast on.”
Bilbo's eyes welled up with tears, a profound sense of despair washing over him. He felt the last vestiges of goodness and hope slip away, realizing that the valiant dwarven prince his younger self had fallen in love with was not just a dragon… but a monster too.
Amidst the outcry of some protesting orcs, their leader swiftly silenced them with a commanding gesture. "Agreed," he gruffly declared in their harsh tongue. The slaves, including Bilbo, were swiftly herded together near the dragon, their bodies huddled pitifully in the dirt. Tears streamed down Bilbo's face as he sobbed in desolation, consumed by grief. The last shard left of his heart had broken.
With the orcs stepping back, Zarakûl positioned himself before the gathered slaves, his chest radiating an even brighter glow. "It will be a swift death, unfortunate as it may be," the dragon added with an air of resignation.
And breathed.
A sound of violent winds.
Unbearable heat.
Screaming.
So much horrible, awful, primal screaming.
But… no pain. At least, not more than what Bilbo was used to, body all bent and beaten over the years. But still… no burning pain that he’d expect from dragon fire.
He lifted his head, vision swimming. He was still alive. And the fearful cries and whimpers that were left were not from the slaves, for they were all still alive as well. And as the smoke dissipated, the pale moonlight revealed a haunting sight—a field strewn with the lifeless bodies of the orc pack, finally vanquished.
They were free, though they hardly knew it.
The dragon turned to them with a bored scowl. “I suggest you all run for your lives whilst I eat my meal.”
There was only a moment's pause before they all ran like chickens without heads, until a ginger bearded dwarf and blond elf rallied them all and led them into the Mirkwood.
Except… Bilbo.
The blonde elf stood by the border and stared at Bilbo. The hobbit shook his head. The elf gave him a curt nod and disappeared through the trees after everyone had safely ran past.
“Are you actually waiting for me to eat you? Do you not have an ounce of survival instinct? Or are you too injured to flee, little halfling?” rumbled the dragon’s voice.
Bilbo ducked his head in reverence. “Your Majesty, I wish to stay and serve you.”
Palpable silence ensued for a long moment before the dragon uttered a bemused “What?”
Bilbo finally looked up and bestowed another beaming smile up at his new master. “Bilbo Baggins, son of Bungo Baggins and Belladonna Took, at your service, O’King Under the Mountain. I’d get up and do a proper bow and all that stuffiness I’ve read in books but I’m afraid I am, actually, injured and just about to faint at the moment.”
The dragon’s mouth dropped open. “I… wh–are you mad , halfling?” He asked, rearing back with incredulity.
I’ve managed to tongue-tie a dragon, Bilbo thought with a hysterical giggle. “Yes,” he answered with a relieved laugh. “Yes, I do believe I am.”
And then Bilbo succumbed to darkness.