Early update for tomorrow's countdown, as I shan't be online again until Monday.

Tragically, I can't take "The Desolation of Smaug" seriously any more. My insane little brain (and perchance my fic The Un-Ellegant Desolation of Smaug) convinced me that Smaug is the good guy protecting Middle Earth from Thorin's greed. It doesn't help that the Dwarves completely ruined his beautiful gold present…. I'm sure BOFA will change my mind.

Approximately 3 days until The Battle of Five Armies hits US theaters. 8)


Smaug considered himself a wise dragon. A fascinating dragon. A delightfully tyrannical, gold-loving dictator who was only looking out for the good of Middle Earth.

It was hardly his fault that Dwarves were rare delicacies and Orcs in comparison tasted like rank socks.

Snorting in disgust, Smaug flicked the blood from each claw and shook himself off. Disgusting creatures. He ate Orcs only when he was starving, and that had not been a threat for a long time. Gold had a tendency to make him sleepy: hibernation had been pleasant until now.

But now… Now his mountain was threatened. Gold-hoarding Dwarves with their ugly dark hearts polluted the slopes. A company of ten would lead to an army of thousands, each shouting at the top of his voice for the sale of another living being. Such were the days Smaug the Tyrannical remembered. Such was the reason he guarded the decaying remnants of Middle Earth.

Now the Dwarves had brought Orc filth with them. Smaug could feel the vibrations against his claws: thousands of tramping metal feet and steel-coated paws.

Sauron had returned.

He was there for the Mountain.

He was there for the Dwarves.

Seething, Smaug flung back his head and incinerated the remnants of the Orc party. He could butcher an army. He could flay another dragon and bite the heads from a thousand trolls.

He could not fight the Necromancer.

Smaug crouched apprehensively, readying for flight. His eyes flitted to the mountain, deliberating his choice. The Arkenstone nestled in the gap where a scale had been knocked free: a shiny bauble enriched by ruby armor. The Lonely Mountain could fall, but the Arkenstone would be safe. A shard of light protected whilst Darkness shrouded Middle Earth.

Smaug had no reason to protect Erebor.

But he did know how to make the remains seem unappealing to the Dark Lord.

Golden eyes settled on the shores of Laketown. One night's work and the Orcs would charge upon a city of charcoal. They were a flimsy people, the race of men: arrows and swords offered no threat against the Magnanimous and Invincible Smaug.

The village would burn and the mountain would crumble. Smaug would lay desolation to Middle Earth one last time, and then he would sleep.

Sauron would gain nothing.


Rain fell in plastering sheets, as though the sky had determined to form a new river over the mountain. Thorin paced in the hall. It chaffed at him, this game of waiting. He reviewed what he remembered of Erebor's corridors, marking the forges and the water towers: a Dragon's bane according to the legends. If they could only find Smaug first, and then lead him into a trap...

"Thorin." Balin's voice was soft and urgent. "You need to see this."

Irked at the break in his concentration, Thorin cast Balin a glare and then followed him to the entrance. Rain sloshed down and soaked him the moment he stepped outside. Balin's beard was a dripping mop and Ori shivered miserably beside him. Balin grunted and jabbed ahead, briskly leading the way.

Grumbling under his breath, Thorin slid across shale and wondered what had possessed the elder to flit out in this weather. Surely Smaug was not to be found across the slope. No dragon in his right mind would allow a thunderstorm to quench his inner flame.

Thorin saw the corpses and floundered.

Hundreds of Orcs lay with gaping mouths and wide eyes, cut down in the throes of terror. Severed limbs lay among half-eaten wargs. Bones glittered in the rain, yanked out of their bodies by the same slashing stroke that had gouged the rock beneath them.

"Smaug," Thorin whispered.

"He's alive," Balin said gravely. "And very, very angry."


Dripping water startled Dis awake. She rubbed a crick out of her neck, looking around disconcertedly before her eyes settled on Fili. His eyes were closed and his face relaxed in peaceful stillness.

Dis gasped and lunged forward, grasping her son's hand. Clammy and fevered, just as before. The chill of death had not touched him.

The empty space in the bed swallowed her relief.

"Where is Kili?"

Searching the room, Dis shivered and hugged herself. Water dripped from the ceiling, plopping like Durin's tears on the empty pillow. Instantly Dis swept to her feet.

"Dwalin? Oin?"

Where was he? Where was her boy? For the first time she had seen him in her dreams. Sparkling brown eyes, so like her brother at seventeen. He was a bairn still, diving from trees and tripping over gangly legs as he tried to keep up with his brother. She knew him, and he belonged to her.

How could they have taken him away?

"Dwalin!" Dis screamed.

Heavy boots pounded on the steps and Bard burst into the room. His face was ashen and his eyes haggard. He paused to catch his breath. "Are you all right?"

"Where is he?" Dis demanded. "Where is my son?"

The remaining color drained from Bard's face and he swallowed tightly. "In the next room. He – "

Instantly Dis scrambled for the door. Bard lunged and grabbed her arm, swinging her away. "Dis. Wait."

"Let me go!" Dis growled. "Don't you dare keep me away from him!"

"Dis, would you listen to me!"

The urgency in his voice plunged her into despair. Without meaning to Dis whimpered. "What happened to him?"

"Dis…" Bard's voice was sorrowful and gentle. "They had no choice. They're taking off his leg."

She never felt herself hit the floor.


Vaguely he felt pain. It was odd, the swish of nerves through a limb that felt no other sensation. Kili wanted to raise his head and look, but Caradhras himself had sprung out of Bofur's stories and was holding him down. Kili supposed it didn't matter any more. Here it was cold and cold numbed the ice. If he didn't feel anything, then it wouldn't hurt when the gods took him away.

He didn't want to go.

He wanted Fili back.

He wanted to run away, and run and run and keep on running until Baldor disappeared and there was nothing but sunshine and golden eagle's feathers sweeping him away.

And he thought it was strange that he finally remembered Baldor; the very thing that had made him so afraid.

Then pain scraped through bone and he thought of nothing.


Though I do apologize, I do not blame the Muses. This nasty little idea was my own.

Because I'm horribly awesome and Borys68 challenged me to rewrite The Hobbit. So, yeah... blame the inspiration for this.

A Little Note: For the record, the Arkenstone is described as a "her" in the Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey credits song, "Song of the Lonely Mountain." ("Her fate unknown, the Arkenstone….")

Therefore, it is only logical to imagine that the Arkenstone has some shred of importance (and perchance, living aptitude) in Middle Earth. I take this idea and run with it.