A Present fit for a Hobbit
Smaug has agreed to meet Diamond on the other side of the Misty Mountains, to deliver her present
Seeing the Hobbit make her preparations to come and meet him, Smaug readies himself for his own journey; a much longer one, by distance alone, but his powerful wingbeats will devour the difference in time. This is the first time he has ventured so far from his lair, and he is both wary and excited. His wound has been healing well, and he is ready to exercise the muscles, but he knows he will be flying near Elven territory, and it would be an irony indeed for him to be felled again by an arrow on his first sortie!
He soars through the night on the wings of the wind, high in the sky with the moon shining upon his scales like old blood. He traverses the Withered Heath to its westernmost edge, then skirts the bare hills at the borders of Ered Mithrin, keeping well to the north of Thranduil's kingdom in Mirkwood. The bleak moorland rolls away beneath him in a tapestry of shadows, and the mountains rear to his right like fangs reaching to grasp the moon in their jaws.
He comes shortly to the Hithaeglir, the Mountains of Mist, an almost impassable barrier to mortal and Dragon alike. Now he bears southward many miles along the glittering ribbon of the River Anduin, making for the High Pass. The land has shifted during the long years of his mastery in Erebor, but he knows this way through the mountains will be unchanged, even since the last time he came this way, a whole Age ago. As his wings cover the moon, the Beornings in their woodland hamlets shiver and cover their heads, sensing a great menace passing in the night; but he pays the lands of Men no heed and after some hours, he reaches the most difficult point of his journey.
The crossing is dangerous, even for one so powerful; the mountains are high, the air thin, and even on such a calm night, the winds in the pass are strong and buffet him from all directions so that he has to struggle not to be dashed against the looming crags. The constant swerving pulls on his wing muscles until they burn within his breast, and he fears that the old wound may reopen, but there is no way back now. Finally, labouring badly from his efforts, he shoots into quieter, open air like a cork from a bottle - he has made it, he is through! He is winded now, but turns grimly northward again, for he is not so foolish as to fly directly over the great Elf haven of Rivendell, however it might cut short the last lap of his journey. He skirts that land, mountains rearing again on his right flank, and loops round to the northwest, over the lower reaches of the Ettenmoors. It is here, he is sure, that Diamond will have come.
Now he flies more slowly, scanning the terrain with his keen eyes and snuffing the wind for the scent of horse, as he glides lower and lower in sweeping circles over the tree dotted heath. Although he does not know it, his own history is shadowing him: he is searching now above the Trollshaws, the hilly woodlands where Bilbo and the Dwarves were captured by trolls on their journey to steal his treasure. There! He catches it, the strong musk of a tired horse; it must have taken most of the night for Diamond to travel here, but then it has taken him as long, and a harder journey by far.
He glides soundlessly over a wide clearing in the trees, and spots the tiny shape, standing fearless and anticipatory out in the glade, gazing at the open sky. He feels a strange surge of pride for the little Hobbit, so vulnerable and yet so dauntless, the only one of mortal kindred to dare to meet in friendship with a Dragon. Such strength of spirit deserves a matching power, and this is the purpose of the gift he has brought. It is strange, he muses, that he should be attempting to lift a Hobbit to the lofty ranks of heroes, when it was one of her kind that led to his own defeat. But he senses that, of all the mortal kindreds, this artless and stalwart race alone might deign to treat with a Dragon; especially with the intrepid glints_on_snow as their leader.
He wings downward, gliding as silently as a cloud over the moon, his shadow occluding the glade for a long moment before he lands. He drops lightly into the dead centre of the clearing, folds his wings, and waits with raised head and gleaming eyes for Diamond to approach. Despite the proud curve of his neck, his breast heaves as he catches his breath, and an astute lover of beasts would notice the tired droop of his head and wings, and the dimmer light in his eyes, the glow of banked coals instead of their usual flaming brilliance. The journey has pushed Smaug to his farthest limits, and exhausted him.
Seeing the Hobbit make her preparations to come and meet him, Smaug readies himself for his own journey; a much longer one, by distance alone, but his powerful wingbeats will devour the difference in time. This is the first time he has ventured so far from his lair, and he is both wary and excited. His wound has been healing well, and he is ready to exercise the muscles, but he knows he will be flying near Elven territory, and it would be an irony indeed for him to be felled again by an arrow on his first sortie!
He soars through the night on the wings of the wind, high in the sky with the moon shining upon his scales like old blood. He traverses the Withered Heath to its westernmost edge, then skirts the bare hills at the borders of Ered Mithrin, keeping well to the north of Thranduil's kingdom in Mirkwood. The bleak moorland rolls away beneath him in a tapestry of shadows, and the mountains rear to his right like fangs reaching to grasp the moon in their jaws.
He comes shortly to the Hithaeglir, the Mountains of Mist, an almost impassable barrier to mortal and Dragon alike. Now he bears southward many miles along the glittering ribbon of the River Anduin, making for the High Pass. The land has shifted during the long years of his mastery in Erebor, but he knows this way through the mountains will be unchanged, even since the last time he came this way, a whole Age ago. As his wings cover the moon, the Beornings in their woodland hamlets shiver and cover their heads, sensing a great menace passing in the night; but he pays the lands of Men no heed and after some hours, he reaches the most difficult point of his journey.
The crossing is dangerous, even for one so powerful; the mountains are high, the air thin, and even on such a calm night, the winds in the pass are strong and buffet him from all directions so that he has to struggle not to be dashed against the looming crags. The constant swerving pulls on his wing muscles until they burn within his breast, and he fears that the old wound may reopen, but there is no way back now. Finally, labouring badly from his efforts, he shoots into quieter, open air like a cork from a bottle - he has made it, he is through! He is winded now, but turns grimly northward again, for he is not so foolish as to fly directly over the great Elf haven of Rivendell, however it might cut short the last lap of his journey. He skirts that land, mountains rearing again on his right flank, and loops round to the northwest, over the lower reaches of the Ettenmoors. It is here, he is sure, that Diamond will have come.
Now he flies more slowly, scanning the terrain with his keen eyes and snuffing the wind for the scent of horse, as he glides lower and lower in sweeping circles over the tree dotted heath. Although he does not know it, his own history is shadowing him: he is searching now above the Trollshaws, the hilly woodlands where Bilbo and the Dwarves were captured by trolls on their journey to steal his treasure. There! He catches it, the strong musk of a tired horse; it must have taken most of the night for Diamond to travel here, but then it has taken him as long, and a harder journey by far.
He glides soundlessly over a wide clearing in the trees, and spots the tiny shape, standing fearless and anticipatory out in the glade, gazing at the open sky. He feels a strange surge of pride for the little Hobbit, so vulnerable and yet so dauntless, the only one of mortal kindred to dare to meet in friendship with a Dragon. Such strength of spirit deserves a matching power, and this is the purpose of the gift he has brought. It is strange, he muses, that he should be attempting to lift a Hobbit to the lofty ranks of heroes, when it was one of her kind that led to his own defeat. But he senses that, of all the mortal kindreds, this artless and stalwart race alone might deign to treat with a Dragon; especially with the intrepid glints_on_snow as their leader.
He wings downward, gliding as silently as a cloud over the moon, his shadow occluding the glade for a long moment before he lands. He drops lightly into the dead centre of the clearing, folds his wings, and waits with raised head and gleaming eyes for Diamond to approach. Despite the proud curve of his neck, his breast heaves as he catches his breath, and an astute lover of beasts would notice the tired droop of his head and wings, and the dimmer light in his eyes, the glow of banked coals instead of their usual flaming brilliance. The journey has pushed Smaug to his farthest limits, and exhausted him.