Chapter Text
Isengard
The trees in Isengard were beginning to change their colors from lively green to a deep brown that was almost black as Gandalf rode towards the tower looming before him. He did not give consideration to the fact that in years past, the leaves had once turned from green to gold and red, not to a dull and crackled brown. He had too much on his mind, too much that he wanted to discuss with the leader of his order, Saruman the White.
“The year grows old, and Gandalf the Grey rides to Isengard seeking my counsel,” Saruman said as he descended the steps of Orthanc, with a smile that did not quite meet his dark eyes. “For that is why you have come, is it not? My old friend….”
“Saruman,” Gandalf bowed his head in respect. “It is indeed. I seek your counsel on something that has long weighed on my mind.”
“I do not imagine that this is about the One Ring, as you are aware of my thoughts on the matter. It flowed out to sea. I myself have searched the Anduin for it.”
“I can only hope that you are right,” Gandalf said with a smile. “No, I did not travel this far for that. I came on the matter of a dragon.”
“Smaug?” Saruman asked, and he motioned for Gandalf to follow him up Orthanc’s steps. “He has been sleeping for sixty years, has he not?”
“He has not been seen for nigh on sixty years, yes, but he may not sleep. When I was in Dol Guldor, Thrain said he believed that the dragon and Sauron were in league—”
“ Thrain said? You told me that Thrain barely knew his own name—and you wish to take his counsel?” Saruman scoffed, leading Gandalf into a room lit by many tall candles, and tables stacked with ancient books and scrolls.
“He had enough sense to give me a map of Erebor and a key and to tell me to give them to his son,” Gandalf said shortly, jabbing his staff into the ground and leaning on it. “Who knows how long he had been there, listening to Sauron’s plans? He may have had insight that we would be wise to consider.”
“Very well. What do you wish to do with this… ‘insight’ ?”
“I wish to… encourage a quest. A quest for Erebor. I believe it is time that I pass on the map and key to Thrain’s son and heir, Thorin Oakenshield. It is time for him to reclaim his homeland. I have looked for a Warrior or a Hero, but they are all busy fighting, and they are scarce in these parts. So I have decided on Burglary, as I believe this map shows the existence of a secret entrance.”
“Burglary? You may need a hundred burglars to remove even a portion of the gold in that mountain—and to do it under Smaug’s very nose? You will need one who is quiet, and probably invisible, too.” Saruman made a noise of derision— it was not quite a snort, as snorting was not proper for wizards.
“I don’t know about hundreds,” Gandalf said, his eyes shining with a knowing gleam as he straightened his back and stood to his full height, “but I have one in mind who is very little on his feet. He can go unseen by most if he wishes. He may not be invisible, but his scent will be unknown to the dragon.”
“Quiet and unknown to Smaug? Where did you find such an individual?”
“He is a hobbit, and he goes by the name of Bilbo Baggins.”
Gandalf left Isengard for Bree, where he planned to have a ‘chance meeting’ with Thorin Oakenshield. Saruman still sat where Gandalf had left him in his room high in Orthanc’s tower. He closed his hand tightly around his black staff and stood. He must pay a visit to this hobbit before Gandalf did.
Bag End
It was a fine spring morning that saw Bilbo Baggins sitting on a bench by his front door to enjoy the crisp, early air. He smoked a long wooden pipe and read his morning letters. He did not notice the tall man with white hair who stood by his gate for an embarrassingly long moment, and when he did look up, he nearly leapt out of his skin in shock.
“Good morning!” he said in surprise, as he took in the man in a white robe, leaning on a black walking stick, set at the top with a polished silver stone.
“Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” said Saruman—for the man in the white robes was, indeed, Saruman, smiling at the hobbit through his white and grey beard.
“I am sorry, my dear sir, but you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t seem to know yours.” If Bilbo had been a bit wiser, he might have found this fact unnerving, but fifty quiet years in the Shire had not given him cause for such suspicion.
“Forgive me, Mr. Baggins. I know your name because we have a mutual friend, Gandalf,” Saruman said, with a slight incline of his head.
“Gandalf? Not the wandering wizard who used to make such excellent fireworks?” Bilbo chuckled, remembering the bright colors and shapes. “The Old Took had them on midsummer’s eve! Splendid!”
“Yes, my fellow wizard, Gandalf. He did make a particular study of bewitchments with fire. It is partially on his account that I am come to your lovely Shire. Might I speak with you in private?”
“O-of course!” Bilbo, despite his trusting nature, had begun to feel slightly unnerved by this man who spoke of his childhood friend studying ‘bewitchments’, but a proper Baggins does not turn away a guest. “Please do come in! I’ll put on the kettle. Or perhaps you would prefer something a bit stronger?”
“For this, you may prefer something stronger,” Saruman said as he stepped through the gate and strode up the stairs. Bilbo scrambled to his feet and opened the round door to his hobbit hole. Saruman watched as Bilbo entered the house and started down the hall, towards the pantry.
“I will bring up some of the old vineyard that my father laid down. Please come into the parlor, make yourself at home!”
Saruman turned to look over his shoulder before entering and saw the tip of a pointed blue hat just over the hill. He quickly ducked into the low-ceilinged hobbit hole and closed the door behind him.
“I would appreciate something to eat after my long journey as well if it’s not too much trouble,” he called after the hobbit. He heard Bilbo’s assent and assurances that it was “No trouble at all, no trouble at all!” from deep in the pantry—so deep, in fact, that Bilbo did not hear the knock of Gandalf’s staff on his door.
Bilbo drew up a table and chairs for himself and his guest. He set down some beautiful round seedcakes, a pot of rich Devonshire cream, two crystal glasses, and a green bottle of red wine. He poured Saruman a glass of the fruity wine, and then one for himself.
“I shall get right to the point,” Saruman said brusquely, “as this is urgent and it is best that the task I am going to set you be undertaken soon.”
“A task?” Bilbo asked. This was beginning to sound a bit more than he bargained for in letting the old man in. He began to fret and wring his hands, and reached for his glass of wine to keep it from showing.
“Yes, but before I assign you this task, I must first tell you of something that happened many years ago, somewhere far—but not far enough—from your peaceful Shire.” Saruman’s voice became low, and ominous, as he gave Bilbo his recounting of the ill-fated tale.
“Over a hundred and fifty years ago, there was a dwarven kingdom in the north called Erebor. The dwarves of this kingdom, as all Dwarves, were greedy, so greedy that they forfeited a treaty with the elves of the woodland realm for the want of white gems. In their greed, these dwarves had delved deep into their mountain—some might even say too deep, but they would not be swayed to give up their purpose, for the riches they found were magnificent: a great deal of silver, gems, and even some mithril. But the true wealth of the mountain, and the very heart of their undoing, came from Erebor’s great seams of gold
“This, undoubtedly, is what brought on the dragon.
“The dragon came from the north, a firedrake descended from the survivors of Morgoth’s battle-bred monsters. He razed a nearby town of men before he turned his sights to the mountain, where he decimated the dwarven soldiers and rooted out every speck of gold in the mountain for his nest.
“Some of the dwarves survived. They fled to the Blue Mountains, to the west of the Shire. They gave no aid or recompense to the soldiers or townsfolk of the city that their greed had destroyed. And now, because the dragon has not left his golden nest in the mountain for sixty years, these dwarves believe they can return to Erebor, to reclaim the mountain and its riches.
“But they will fail. I have foreseen it. They will wake the dragon. And he will, in his revenge, destroy everything between Erebor and the Blue Mountains.” As he finished his story, Saruman paused to watch the effect it had on the hobbit. Bilbo squirmed in his seat.
“That is… very unfortunate,” Bilbo breathed. “H-However, I don’t know what I that has to do-”
“Mr. Baggins, the Shire lies directly on the path from Erebor to the Blue Mountains,” Saruman slammed his stick into the floor at his feet, but smiled and softened his grip on his staff when the hobbit jumped. “Smaug will learn where the dwarves came from, and he will seek to destroy their stronghold. He will burn and pillage the lands he flies over, including your home .”
“But… why ? Why would he attack the Shire?” Bilbo cried, leaping from his seat. He began to pace around the room. “And what can I do about it? What use is knowing what could happen?”
“Peace, my dear halfling,” Saruman told him, raising his hands in supplication. “I will tell you what you can do. It is very simple. You can prevent the whole tragedy with one very simple task.”
“What is it?” Bilbo sat back down on the edge of his chair and clasped his hands tightly.
Saruman smiled to himself; the hobbit had all but agreed. He leaned forward, and quietly told the hobbit, “There is one who will instigate these events. He wants to start a quest, a quest to reclaim what he believes is his birthright. He is the grandson of the King under the Mountain whom the dragon displaced. He believes he should be king of this mountain. But there is madness in his family, and it has taken root in him. He harbors a greed for gold so strong that there is nothing he will not do to get it—there is no one and no thing he would not sacrifice. His name is Thorin Oakenshield.”
Saruman lowered his voice even further, noting with satisfaction that the hobbit had nearly fallen from his seat as he leaned in to listen. “If he was… removed from the equation, shall we say… there would be no foolish quest, and the dragon will continue to sleep.” Saruman paused, then laughed. “Don’t you hobbits not have a saying? ‘Let sleeping dogs lie’? Well, in this case, it would be ‘let sleeping dragons lie.’”
“Yes, yes, we- we do say that,” Bilbo let out a short, breathy laugh. “But I have never heard of this Thorin—why should he listen to me? Surely he would listen to you, a wizard?”
“You would think so.” Saruman smiled at the hobbit, but it didn’t reach his eyes—they remained dark and cold. “But I do not think he will listen to anyone. However, I do still believe there is a solution. For his plans, he needs a burglar who can move quietly, and whose scent is unknown to the dragon. A hobbit would best suit the part. And I believe, Mr. Baggins, that he will seek you out for this venture.”
“Me?” Bilbo gaped, aghast. “I’m not a burglar . I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”
“I do not doubt that, but Gandalf was a friend of your mother, who had a bit of the Tookish fae about her and he thinks that you do as well,” Saruman said. “ But you are a very respectable hobbit. A respectable Baggins. And that respectability will be important to your task.”
“Right, my task,” Bilbo muttered. He frowned at the wizard. “What is my task? You said I could prevent this simply. What do I need to do to protect my home?”
Saruman smiled, and this time his cold eyes were alight with triumph. “You must follow the dwarves. And kill the one who leads them.”