I have been wanting to write this fanfic for quite some days now, and I finally got to do it. It is an AU (Smaug never attacked) but everything will be explained in the fanfic. Before anything else, a million thanks to nightwrighter for betaing this. Anyways, enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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My fingers brush, no, caress gently the dark wood of the bow that I firmly hold in my hands as I wait for the moment, the perfect moment, to execute and to bring to an end days not only of careful planning but also of travelling and preparing. Days during which I had had to remain as hidden as I always had to be. It was essential to do so, or else the careful plan which I had drawn to ensure the success of what I had been contracted to do would be put in jeopardy. Jeopardy, failure to deliver what I had promised, would only hurt me in return by hindering the aims that had led me to accept the contract in the first place. It would only hurt the things that had led me to sell my services as some type of mercenary or assassin for hire, the things that were closest to my heart, the people closest to me.

The air is moist around me, giving me a subtle warning of the rain that would surely come in a few hours' time at most. It was important to finish now that the conditions were perfect and that rain wouldn't ruin everything. Rain would only damage the fire. I take a deep breath in as I keep concentration on my surroundings at a maximum. I currently am standing on top of the roof of a house in the town of Bree, one that close enough to my target and yet at the perfect position to let me go recognised. I had been hunching since a long while ago, hiding in the shadows, completely unseen below the dark cloak that covered my whole body. Hiding my face and distorting my appearance with the shadows it created. It was as clean as it could be, unlike the clothes that I normally wore. I take a step sideways, my high dark boots making so sound whatsoever as I move across the roof's tiles. They were made out of the same material than the light armour I wore beneath my dark robes, a durable and strong, but light, composite of materials. It offered me the highest degree of protection by it whilst not hindering my stealth, something that was highly important for someone of my skills and job.

The streets and alleyways below me were and still are deserted, mainly due to the darkness that night brought and the cold winds of winter. It was a time when people were huddled beneath their covers with their families or drinking with their friends, not taking casual strolls through dark alleyways or streets. Dirt and filth accumulated throughout the entire length of the street, creating an almost sickly atmosphere that stole away most of the beauty of the place. It made it apparent for a hobbit like me that this was a city where humans lived. No things that grow, or any type of plant for that matter, could be seen. Everything was completely silent. Not even the footsteps of a human or a traveler of another race could heard throughout the streets, nor the cries of a child. It was a surprising thing, one that, of course, just followed and helped to ensure the success of the plan.

I reach for a wooden arrow from the quiver that was hanging from my back, and carefully light it before placing it on my large bow and tensing its string. It is almost time, the moment was almost here. I quickly spotted the target; the one that I had ensured that would be there at this very moment: a big barrel of alcohol right beside the main door of the inn. I know that there are more of those on the other side of the wooden wall of the inn. I tense the bow's string further and aim carefully. I don't have the keen eyes of the elves, but I wasn't exactly a bad shot. Soon, I am certain that this arrow will hit the target at the perfect spot. I hold the bow strongly in my other hand, perfectly aware that no one can see me and then prepared to let go. It was of utmost importance that I succeeded in this and that I completed the task that had been asked of me.

I force my face to remain stoic as I prepared to let go of the flaming arrow, masking the few emotions that I let myself feel. I had learnt long ago, when I had first started offering my services as a mercenary, that these could only hinder the end result and haunt me. It was because of this that I had decided to try and maintain them as far from my mind and heart as possible when doing a job. It wasn't that I was emotionless, but that I recognised the importance of completing the jobs that I was set. Feelings of guilt would be left for after the job had been completed.

"Now," I quickly thought. I maintain the firm grip over my bow as I finally let go of the arrow, which left the bow with a soft 'twang'', hissing through the air as it went directly towards the-

No, this is not right. This is not where the story starts, where the events that I am about to tell, that led me to be at the very centre of a political conspiracy that could and did alter everything, began. This is certainly not where my story starts, and it just ignores the reason why I was forced into offering my services as some kind of mercenary. The terrible events that had led me to be here, preparing to set alight and burn to the ground The Prancing Pony. This wasn't to ensure the death of someone this time, far better methods could be used to ensure the demise of someone, after all, but to send a message that my contractor wanted to be sent to the owner of the biggest and most popular inn of Bree.

The real story does not start here but when I was barely a child by hobbit standards. It starts at the time that Bungo Baggins first became infected with the terrible disease that had ultimately ended his life, one that no doctor had been able to identify correctly. Cure after cure had been tried, each worse than the one before it and also more painful and costly. This had lasted a year until my father had ultimately died, a year during which the position of my family had changed drastically. Yes, this is where the story really starts.

The dark disease that had taken away the life of my father has remained unidentified until this very day by everyone. It had been a strange disease, one that had infected many hobbits at the time and killed many of the infected as well. At first it had only seemed like an innocent cold, but soon sharp pains and boils had come, along with the terrible smell that these brought upon exploding. My father had been one of the last infected alive, but no one could avoid the ultimate fate reserved for them by the disease. All of our riches had been spent on trying to cure the disease. The gold had been the first to go, and it had soon been followed by expensive furniture and the other things that had allowed us to live a comfortable life. Even my mother's treasured dinner service collection hadn't been spared, and before we knew it we were up to our necks in debt as we struggled to find the cure that would save my weakened father from the terrible disease.

All of these cures, however, had no effect and didn't stop the unavoidable consequence of the disease, and before I even realised it I was forced to say a final goodbye to my father. That final moment occurred during a cold and not exactly nice day, and those who remember that day, the day that Bungo Baggins, my father, died, swear that during his last moments a bright purple flash of light was seen in the sky. It was a flash of light that I never got to see, distressed as I was, but that would haunt my dreams for the rest of my life. It still does, after all.

Life from that point onwards was not easy. My father was gone, but the people that we owed money to weren't. Soon even the silver knives and forks were forced to be sold as the number of friends of our family was reduced to a select few. No new clothes could be afforded, and it wasn't long until all that we could wear were or were close to being rags. My mother and I were eventually forced out of our very own home, later acquired by the Sackville-Baggins. We were forced to enter the struggle for life that many people faced, and we were forced to live in the only possible places that we could afford on the outskirts and worst areas of The Shire, far too damp, wet and muddy to be good living conditions.

Job after job had to be taken by me and my mother, and while we still had a few friends that helped us and gave us money when needed, even these people kept getting fewer and fewer. Despair became a usual thing for me to feel. I learnt to fight and be strong to achieve survival in the cruel world that I had suddenly found myself in whilst still being a child, later forced to resort to stealing after realising that the many and yet badly paid jobs that both my mother and I did weren't enough to keep us both alive and that she could be forced to worse things for a living for survival. It wasn't long before I learnt to put my natural hobbit stealth into use and was forced to lie to my very mother about the origin of certain things, food and money that I acquired. She had been through a lot after all; she didn't need to be worried any more than she already was. She still didn't, my opinion in this matter remains the same until now.

Before I knew it, two years after the death of my father, I had managed to learn to steal almost undetected. I was almost like a shadow of sorts, with quick hands and able to get hold of any object or quantity of coins that I wanted. It was around that time that I got in contact with a group of hobbits and humans that could have constituted a 'guild'' of thieves. I sold them the objects and things that I robbed and got money in return, money that I put into good use by buying food and other essential things for my mother and me. I also decided to spend some of that money that I 'earned' through stealing into paying for being taught how to wield weapons. Soon I was being taught how to use daggers, swords, bows, crossbows, maces, axes and many other weapons by other guild members that did other sorts of 'jobs'. It took time, but necessity forced me to learn fast.

It was around that time, after a particularly bad and rainy year, that my mother got sick with another disease, one different from the one that my father had contracted but that was no less deadly. Soon, all the profit that I had managed to start making was being spent on cures, medicines and doctors. It apparently had appeared due to the bad living conditions that we were in, but it could be cured and death be prevented with the right treatment. Soon all my earnings were being spent on the not exactly cheap medicine that was necessary to ensure the survival of my mother, and the little food that I could afford to buy after getting the medicines went mainly to her, as was natural. I didn't want to lose another parent. I really didn't. She was, and still is, the most important person in my world, my only family, and I didn't want to feel the grief that I had felt when my father died. It thanks to this that I first discovered about the possibility of selling my abilities in exchange for money.

I still frequently and commonly stole, but soon I became some sort of mercenary. I was helped by a hobbit that I knew to get my first 'job' or 'contract'': to rob an important family inheritance from one of the richest families in the Shire. It was thankfully successful, despite the ever present danger of being detained, and soon after that more jobs were offered to me, each scaling in importance as my abilities started becoming known in the underground world. Beating people up and destroying property of a rival merchant of my contractor became a usual and ordinary thing. Well, as ordinary as it could possibly get for someone like me, who had only been forced to give away all comfort in exchange for survival.

I soon learnt that being detached from what was being done was the key to success, but nothing made me learn this lesson more than my first murder contract. I had to kill a hobbit, a father, who had not paid any of his debts in too long, sparking the drastic measures that the people that he owed money to took. The memories of his blood dripping onto the floor would chase me for the rest of my life, as would the memories of his pleading and crying. I had cried after doing the deed. How could I have not? I had taken someone's life away, robbed him from his family and loved ones. Grief had taken hold of my heart and made me almost want to end my own life, to hand myself in to justice and accept my well-deserved punishment, death, for the atrocity which I had committed. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of my innocent mother perishing, it still does, and so what had initially been a lone assassination and murder soon became many more, too many to count by now.

It was like this, with the murder contracts, that I learnt that life was meaningless. It was nothing of value. We all ended up the same way, and nothing could change that. Bonds with the victim and emotion and guilt were only an obstacle in the way of completing the contract. Love was like a noose around one's neck, one that could be used to end my life or that of my mother. It could only do harm. Becoming an assassin changed me, it made me even more closed, it made me keep to myself and avoid tying myself to anyone other than my sick mother. If I had any ties my mother could die because of it. I was a wanted man after all. Love was weakness, and weakness would make me fail to complete my contracts. Weakness would get me, but most importantly my mother, killed. Nothing mattered except completing the contract. I had no friends, just targets, and from the moment I accepted a contract I knew that the target was already a dead person. I guaranteed it after all. It didn't take long to learn the keys to success, but it took longer to accept these unavoidable truths. Assassination was an art, one that I had to master.

Years went by in this way, and my name, my false one rather, soon became known. I received more and more contracts, all about grave deeds that needed to be committed. I became an artist in the art of killing, and strove to get better in my dominance of weapons and poison every day. Death was all around me, but that meant nothing. I was an assassin, a mercenary, a killer. It was my job, one that I had to do to ensure the survival of my mother.

I blink just once and continue staring at the inn which is quickly catching fire, wearing my face like a mask that hid everything which I felt. Screams were heard from the inside, but most people almost immediately ran out of the burning building, terrified. My job was completed, and this meant that I would be able to survive another month. I back into the shadows, making myself one of them as I sheath my bow. It was time to return home. I smiled; I hadn't been there in days and I would see the only remaining member of my family again.