Heart of the Mountain ending outline

A/N: Because I have come back to this story many times in the past years but have never had the inspiration or the creative strength to finish it. Because I see that people are still reading it and find it interesting, though regrettably unfinished. Because I know how it ends and it seems like a great shame not to share it... I have decided for the middle ground and the writing of at least an outline for the rest of the tale. It would be epic if someone with more talent and writing skill would do this for me. Alas, there is only me and there is only this paltry excuse for a story ending, but here is how I have envisioned it would go, from the ending of the last chapter

IN ESGAROTH

Fëanor and Thorin finally have the confrontation that has been brewing for a long time. The lies and the deception are cast aside and Fëanor speaks the truth about himself, his purposes, the Silmaril and everything in between. Though he has guessed much and intuited more, Thorin's rage is no less and his response is harsh, painful and utterly impossible for Fëanor to accept. Even though their trust is broken and their friendship destroyed, Fëanor will not be dismissed. The more Thorin rages against him, the deeper he digs his heels in until, after hours of shouting back and forth, Thorin is too weary to fight anymore. And even though everything he hears sounds like more lies, Thorin has to admit to himself that no matter what he says or does henceforth, Fëanor and his sons will be dogging his heels, will continue to interfere, and Erebor will never be free of them until they have what they want. History, such as even the Dwarves know it, has proven beyond doubt that the Fëanorians will pursue their goals at whatever cost and to whatever end. Even if he is heartsick and full of loathing for the situation, Thorin must acknowledge the fact that he is in no position to make enemies of his former friends and, if he has not the means to prevent them from following the quest into Erebor, he also does not have the means to protect himself from whatever action they would take if they should perceive themselves as the Dwarves' enemies.

He throws this bitter fact into Fëanor's face, only to have the stricken Elf fall to his knees before Thorin, vowing that harming the Dwarves is the furthest from what he and his sons would ever do. Fëanor vows that Thorin could never be his enemy, that he has come to care for him so deeply that the pain of losing his friendship is far worse than he could ever have imagined. Fëanor says many things, passionate and pleading and such is the strength of his speech (and has ever been) that at the end, Thorin is swayed. In his heart, he also wants to believe that not everything was a lie and that what was forged while crossing half the world to reach Esgaroth is not merely onesided. He wants to believe Fëanor and does believe him, no matter how unwise it might be. He must believe, when Fëanor makes further vows that he will never lie to Thorin again, he will never dissemble, whatever is to be done henceforth they will decide together. Furthermore, Fëanor will not claim the Silmaril for himself, he would leave it in Thorin's keeping, so long as he and his sons are permitted to remain in Erebor and see to the rebuilding of it, as was agreed to before.

In the end, Thorin wants to know why and Fëanor says: "Because it may have been about the Simaril once, but that is long behind us now. And I am not the same Elf as I was before. I have made all these mistakes before and, Eru help me, I will not make them again. I need your help to keep me and my sons from making these mistakes again. Please believe me now, when I say that it is not the jewel that matters, but what has grown here, in my heart. The Silmaril may be fire of my fire and a part of me as my own children are. But so are you, Thorin Oakenshield. And I would do for you much more than I have ever done for a Silmaril."

And so, Thorin Oakenshield is swayed. And it falls to him to convince his companions that nothing has changed, even though everything is different and they can all sense it. It also falls to Thorin to decide what to say and to whom, knowing that all lies must fall away at some point. He knows that for some of the Dwarves it will not matter who the Elves really are. But to his kinsmen and his closest companions it will make all the difference in the world, as Balin and Dwalin soon confirm it. They hold council among themselves and the debate goes on throughout an entire, tense and difficult day, before Thorin wins the argument and enforces the decision that things will proceed as they have thus far and they will use the Elves as much as they can, in the retaking of Erebor. In that respect, at least, they all agree that if the Fëanorians truly want to take on the dragon, they are welcome to it. But, at the same time, the Dwarves must be watchful and take measures to keep themselves from becoming victims as well. Of either fell beast or fell Elves.

On the other side of the divide, the Elves are restless and incredulous that their father would humble himself and throw himself upon the mercy of a Dwarf. For some of them, the depth of their father's attachment is a surprise, for others less so. But for all, the willing surrender of the Silmaril is a blow and a decision that is hotly contested, until Maglor quietly observes that it does not really matter if Thorin Oakenshield keeps the Simaril for a hundred years or however much time he may live. In the end, if they manage to secure Erebor and fortify it against any and all enemies, the Simaril may belong to the Dwarves in name, but in truth it will always belong to its maker. And what better way to keep it defended than inside a mountain made impregnable, fenced by the fierceness of the Dwarves?

"Thorin holds the heart of his people, Atar. If you have faith that, in turn, you can hold his heart, then our purposes are not at odds. They will seek to use us to secure their mountain, we will seek to use them to secure our treasure. And in time, this can be a symbiosis we will all believe in again, as we have thus far."

Because they have faith in their father, all the brothers agree with him and are resolved to prove themselves once more and to keep their voatile tempers in check, through the barrage of insults and the mistrustful scrutiny to come. Such efforts are soon redoubled when Fili and Celegorm have their own confrontation (under Kili's seething and unhelpful attention). As opposed to their father and uncle, Celegorm and Fili are in no way reconciled but cast apart by a torrent of accusations and, in Fili's eyes, the defense Celegorm raises is a paltry and insulting thing. Because he has indeed grown fond of the Elf, the betrayal cuts deep and is unforgivable. Because Celegorm has grown fond of Fili, he fights his own rising temper and the way his pride goads him into a violent lashing out. Instead of pleading for forgiveness, he forces himself to walk away, in fear of what he might do if he should snap. And so, between these two at least, there can be nothing more than snapped barbs or mistrustful silence, at the very best.

Celegorm seeks solace with Bard and for a few days, finds it. Though here too, love is overshadowed by the fear of things to come and bliss made all the sweeter for its briefness. Celegorm cannot conceive to have Bard with him in their mad quest to slay a dragon. Bard cannot conceive of letting his beloved go again, this time knowing full well that he may never come back. They argue as much as they love, with reasons as strong and as immutable as their passion... until the Elf comes through as the unhappy but decided victor. And Bard agrees that he will stay behind, but only for a while, time enough to gather more supplies and people to him, to then travel north and restablish Dale. In exchange, he will have Celegorm's solemn oath that he will survive and he will see Bard again no matter what. Celegorm swears with the utmost conviction and takes his vow further, binding himself to Bard with Eru as his witness, promising that he will live to see their union last unto the ending of the World. To this, in tears and trembling with the imensity of what is happening to them, Bard can only say once more.

"I will love you until my end and beyond, to wherever men are fated to go. I will take my love for you outside the World, but you must swear to me that you will keep yours in it, until the very end. I will not have you do as Luthien has done, no matter how much or how little time we have, I will not have you make that choice and perish after me. I will bind myself to you only if you promise me that you will live. Now and always you will live and you will remember, but you will not let grief destroy you and you will be happy again."

Even though such words fill him with dread and foreboding, Celegorm gives Bard his promise once again and they bind themselves to one another. And while his beloved sleeps the sleep of the blissfully exhausted in his arms, Celegorm wonders where he will find the strength to keep his word and how much it will cost him to endure, at the end. But the happiness that he has found is greater than anything and for the moment, Celegorm throws himself into it with his usual, reckless abandon.

Legolas finally meets Fëanor and is awed by the experience. Fëanor is in every way what the prince has expected and more besides, charming Legolas and then surprising him to no end with the mission that Fëanor places upon him. Fëanor takes him aside and tells him, in confidence, what the purpose of the entire adventure is: destruction of the dragon, retrieval of the Silmaril, rebuilding of Erebor and Dale, a new alliance between Elves and Men and Dwarves and the creation of a strong place to face down another rising of the Dark Lord. Here Legolas also learns more about the events in Dol Guldur and is shocked to hear that Sauron has been their neighbor for years untold.

Fëanor charges the prince to return to his father, appraise him of everything he now knows, keep him from coming in force against Erebor, but also to stand ready with and for the people of Esgaroth, if things should go ill inside the Mountain. Asked if he truly believes that they can take out the dragon, Fëanor responds simply that if he and his sons cannot do it, no one will. Not knowing what to say in the face of such towering arrogance... or staggering confidence, Legolas can only give his word that he will do his best to persuade his father and bring whatever aid will be needed in the days to come.

Throughout the following days, the Elves and Dwarves secure provisions and weapons and tools for the trek north. In the smithies on the bank of the lake, a great forging takes place. Fëanor and Curufin work day and night (aided by both their kinsmen and some of the Dwarves) to make weapons strong enough for the piercing of dragon hides. On the model of the Black Arrow that remains in Bard's keeping, they forge similar arrows and spearheads, until the Elven members of the company have all the arsenal they can carry. And as the appointed day comes, all is made ready for the departure and the crossing on the water in boats.

To all this Bilbo is a quiet witness, in his recovery from illness and from the surprise of how things have come to be with blinding and implacable speed. He can but follow along, too caught up now in the tide of events and too invested in the fate of all involved to simply slip away. Even though it seems that he is of little use either in counsel, in the making of weapons, in the fighting with said weapons or in much of anything else, the Hobbit still has his own means of contributing to the quest. Holding his last remaining secret closer to his chest than ever, Bilbo Baggins prepares himself for the trials to come as well.

IN EREBOR

The company travel north by boat and then with the aid of ponies, reaching the slopes of Erebor very close to the appointed time. As is elsewhere much better told, the secret entrance is found on Durin's Day and Bilbo enters the Lonely Mountain for his contracted bit of scouting/burglary. Inside, he first sees and then speaks with Smaug the Stupendous, a terrifying and indescribable adventure that leaves the hapless Hobbit fleeing for his life. But also with one hidden Silmaril in his pocket, to add to the hoard of immensely powerful objects on his little person.

At the same time, Fëanor and his sons sneak up to and through the broken gates of Erebor, using as much of their stealth and skill to scout the best places where they might wait and ambush Smaug. They know that the dragon must have sensed them already, so close to his lair, and they know he will come out to investigate the intrusion. That there is a live dragon inside the mountain, the Elves need no proof of. The ruination and the smoke drifting out of the mountain notwithstanding, every one of their senses has been screaming danger during the last miles of their approach to the Lonely Mountain. But they are ready, in spite of the fear for one another's safety. They have faced Balrogs and dragons and what else have they not faced? Surely the eight of them united in their efforts will be enough.

Bilbo and his sneaking, thieving ways manage to enrage Smaug to such an extent that the dragon momentarily forgets what troubled his sleep in the first place: the smell of Elves. Not just any Elves, but the reek and menace Smaug has not felt for thousands of years and has thought long gone from the world. In a fit of fury at the unknown invasion, Smaug sets out to investigate, with a mind to burn his way past anything that moves, either at the gates or on the western side of the mountains, from where the smell of Dwarf has also wafted down to add further to the insult.

Ambush at the Gates of Erebor

The Fëanorians attack the dragon before he is out in the open, positioned in such a manner as to prevent Smaug's escape and to limit the range of his motions. The upper halls of Erebor are laid to further waste, in the ensuing fire and crushing struggle. The eight Elves, spread out through the halls and the upper levels, shoot Smaug with every arrow they have and hurl every spear they have forged at the beast. Smaug's scale armor protects him for the most part, but still his hide is pierced in many places, his membranous wings are riddled with bleeding tears. A lucky spear-throw pins one wing to the dragon's side, causing Smaug to roar in agony and belch forth such a gout of fire that his molten core is momentarily quenched. His attackers seem to be everywhere, fleeing from hiding and from the fury of his fire only to resurface in other places, their stinging darts coming and coming from everywhere at once. Perhaps worse than the rain of iron is the sound of their accursed voices, hurling taunts in their infernal tongue that Smaug has tried for centuries to forget. Before long, the dragon is writhing in pain and confusion and fear, bleeding out ichor and fire and scrabbling to get away from the inferno, for once not of his own making. And still the taunting voices chase him out, filling Smaug with bitterness and the need to avenge himself upon something.

The Elves gather at the gates, taking in the extent of their injuries with exhausted relief. Although most of them sport burns and cuts and scrapes and bruises without number and blood is flowing freely from more than one gash, there are fewer broken bones than they had any right to hope for and they are all alive, for the time being. As quickly as they can, they bind what wounds can be bound and set what bones can be set, though there is little time for healing and the danger remains the same. They collect what arrows and spears they can find and hobble back to more defensible positions, lying in wait for Smaug's inevitable return.

Smaug circles his invaded domain, while his strength returns and the rage within him burns bright once more. He finds the traces of the Dwarf encampment on the western side of the mountain and he blasts the entire area into molten lava. But the Dwarves have fled into the mountain and sealed the door behind them. They have gone down the sweltering tunnels, chased down by the unbearable heat, until they are in the very heart of the mountain and the vast treasure halls of Thror. Having heard the dragon's fury at the gates and having felt the mountain shake with the force of his attack, Thorin fears the worst for their Elven companions. If the dragon is alive and looking for Dwarves to kill, then surely Fëanor has fallen or else they are all in a bad way and Thorin's first impulse is to give chase to the gates and find out. It takes the strength of both Kili Dwalin to restrain him, when the din of destruction comes from the south once again. But if the Elves are gone and Smaug is crashing his way back into Erebor once more, what can the Dwarves do except try to hide until they can find either a way out of the mountain or some means of attacking Smaug themselves? Reason must prevail, for Thorin and it does, albeit the bitterness of it galls and the strength of his grief surprises him.

Thorin divides his company under his kinsmen who are familiar with the ways of Erebor and he motions them to seek what shelter and what weapons they can find. All the while, they listen for the sounds of renewed battle by the gate and, to their surprise, the advance of Smaug seems to have been halted. If anything, his roars have turned to shrieks of agony and never has a horrible sound been sweeter to hear.

For Smaug, whose fury has cooled somewhat after venting it on the secret ingress of those blasted thieves, there rises the question of what to do about all the invaders. He could tear apart the entrance, bring the mountain down upon their heads, but if those damned Dwarves have found a way in... how many others ways of escape might there be? And if the entrance is destroyed, how might Smaug then reenter and rest once more upon his beloved treasure? The thought of all that precious gold and even more, of the lovely Arkenstone those bumbling Dwarves have never truly guessed the origin and true value of, is enough to decide Smaug. He must get back inside, but slowly. Ever so slowly and cautiously, he will creep upon the unsuspecting Elves and snap them up one by one. Let them think him cowed, let them think him chased off and gone. Smaug could outwait them and hold back until the right moment to pounce!

But all such clever plans are made void when Smaug is once more before the broken gates of Erebor and a voice echoes through the vale, calling out in challenge. Upon the battlements, a single figure stands defiant, red hair a living banner lifted by the frigid wind. The Elf bellows his challenge to the craven wyrm of Morgoth, who fled the War at the end of the Elder Days, crawling into the depths of the earth in terror of Gods and Elves alike. "Traitor! Coward! Miserable worm!" Maedhros shouts into the face of the oncoming beast. "The House of Fëanor is come to claim you and be avenged upon the deaths of all those who perished in fire on the battlefields of the old world!"

Smaug would spit back insults about where the mighty House of Fëanor was during the last of those ancient battles, he would spit that and fire upon the brazen figure facing him down, but Maedhros hurls a spear at the dragon's maw and teeth shatter, even as the fire bursts forth to incinerate the dart. In an instant, the Elf vanishes and flames find only the ragged ends of his cloak. And with that, the last vestige of reason flees from the dragon's mind, leaving in its place only the imperative need to destroy.

As Smaug plunges back into Erebor, the Elves renew their attack, knowing full well that it may be their last stand. Rocks sizzle and splinter beneath the fiery onslaught of the dragon, shouts of defiance and taunting turn to cries of pain but even so, the Fëanorians fight on, through the smoke and the unbearable heat and the world that is crumbling all around them. They dart in closer, adding the steel of their swords to that of their spent arrows, and Smaug bellows his agony at the first kiss of Fëanorian steel. Sinews are severed, but so too is the cry of the one who cut them, as he is thrown back by a violent lashing of the dragon's tails and where he crashes against a pillar, the Elf no longer rises to join the fray.

The end is near, Fëanor knows it, not all the fury in the world is enough to fell this beast and the agonized fire in his own eyes is still no match for Smaug's devastating power. The beast fights for its life now, crippled in leg and wing, lashing about with every limb and snapping at them with such speed that all they can do is jump out of the way. If they can jump out of the way... for there Maglor lies in a crumpled heap, not dead, never dead because Fëanor would be dead also if one of his sons fell. But he is hurt, he cannot move aside and the dragon has seen his, it is opening those infernal jaws to bite down, to crush Maglor, to burn him... With a cry of incandescent rage, Fëanor leaps toward the beast and with the strength of both arms, brings his sword down upon the side of Smaug's head. It is an unlucky blow, the sword catching in the ridges of skull and jaw, wrenched free of Fëanor's hands when Smaug tears his head away with an agonized roar. But it is a lucky blow as well, for the great eye of the beast is burst open and Fëanor falls back, cradling one hand that burns, covered in slimy ichor.

After that, none of them are able to tell how it is that the beast escaped, or how it is that they themselves are not all dead. Even more, how it is that any pillars still remain standing and the whole mountain has not collapsed upon them. But somehow, Smaug has thrown them all off, fighting tooth and nail, spouting not fire but bellows of pain and shrieks of helpless fury. He is gone and this time, he will be in no hurry to return, which might save the lives of the ragged survivors. They all limp and hobble toward where Maglor is trying to sit up and failing miserably. He is propped on one hand, face covered in blood, spitting something garbled about biting his fucking tongue... and than is when Fëeanor feels the edges of his consciousness graying with relief. Strong hands lift him and through eyes that are watery not just from smoke, Fëanor sees Amrod's smudged face, bruised and missing most of his long plait, but alive. Groans and curses resound in the ruins, Fëanor can hear them, he can hear all of them, thank Eru he can hear all of them!

But Smaug is still alive. He is out in the open once more, out in the skies, free from the hell just visited upon him. He cannot stand on either of his back legs, he bleeds from what must be hundreds of cuts, his mouth is broken and the side of his head is only darkness and pain. Every beat of his once mighty wings is torture, but even so, he is flying and wants nothing more than to be far, far away from those demons. He will fly north, back to his old haunts, back somewhere safe and dark where he can nurse his wounds and his hatred. He will return, he will find those fiends again, the whole world is not large enough for Smaug and those monsters in it. He will find them and he will make them pay!

In mid-flight, the dragon banks suddenly, as a new thought enters his pain-filled mind. It is a cold thought, but a satisfying one. Perhaps he can have the parting shot, he can give the thieves and murderers one last, killing blow. Surely they have come through Lake Town. And surely those sniveling Men are still as helpless as they have ever been. So too the cowering Elves of Mirkwood who have never dared disturb his plunder or his sleep. Surely there is great burning to be done in Esgaroth.

Without letting the fear of more cunning darts dissuade him from his plans of vengeance, Smaug wings back south and toward the great lake and in his breast, the furnace comes alive, eager for more destruction.

IN ESGAROTH

For days, Bard has lived in a constant state of worry, broken only by brief respites of sleep. But even his dreams are troubled and when the Mountain begins to rumble, when the first fires break upon the slopes, the worry becomes fear. He does not know how he has not already jumped onto a saddle and is not halfway across the distance to that accursed mountain, how the strength of a promise is more than that of his terror for his beloved. But sick at heart though he may be, Bard holds to his word and continues doing what he has promised to do. Those who would listen to him, he has organized to evacuate Lake Town, to carry provisions and what belongings are most necessary as far inland and as quickly as possible. The Elves might slay the dragon, but they might also be slain. Or else the dragon will escape and attack Lake Town. Any number of outcomes might lead to a city in peril, so Celegorm said. Bard promised he would save as many as possible and take as many able bodied men as would follow him on his journey north. But few would listen to him, heir of Girion though he may be. Even less so those who would sooner laugh behind his back and call him an Elf's catamite. Such as them would follow nothing but their own interests and those did not lie anywhere near the Lonely Mountain. "Not unless Smaug does for the Dwarves and the Elves or they do for him... or better yet, they all get each other killed and then the treasure will be anyone's for the taking!"

Thus, most people chose to wait and watch the mountain... and now the fires have come, to Bard's helpless dismay. For a few moments, he is as transfixed as everyone else, listening and peering north in silent apprehension. But after a while, even the most foolhardy of the townsfolk realize that those fires might well turn toward them and in a matter of moments, fear turns to panic and panic turns to rout. There is very little Bard can do to instill any kind of order in the mass exodus that follows. And when, in the darkness of the northern sky, a yellow star seems to be hurtling down toward the lake, Bard knows that it is too late.

Smaug falls upon Lake Town as a meteor, but the trail of fire goes before him and in an instant, a whole street of houses is aflame. From the eastern bank, at the foot of the bridge, Bard helplessly watches his home being systematically destroyed, each sweep of the beast engulfing more houses and more people in devastating fires. He knows he should try once more to lead the people away, to run and find some shelter in the corn fields or the marshes or anywhere with some kind of cover, before the beast tires of his sport with the town and begins to hunt down the survivors. But he is transfixed by the wanton destruction and even more by the thought of what the dragon might have left behind in Erebor. Bard feels his heart crumble like the ashes floating before his eyes, his blood has run cold and sluggish at the thought of a world where Celegorm is lying dead, broken and burned somewhere inside that accursed mountain. That is not a world he can live in, it is a nightmare where promises do not matter, where nothing matters except...

With a roar of fury, Bard snatches up his bow and pulls out one of those finely crafted arrows, so light in his hand but so very deadly. He fights his way back through the last of the fleeing survivors, runs back to the burning town, leaping over burning debris and climbing the side of a building that is somehow still intact. From there, he takes aim at the dragon, hands as steady as Celegorm's have ever been, and begins to shoot.

Most of the arrows miss, or else the blows are ineffective, though even in the hellish light, Bard sees that the dragon is bleeding ichor through many wounds. A gut wrenching wave of pride and love sweeps over him and drowns his vision for a moment, as he thinks of the Elves fighting and wounding the beast. He too must give a good account of himself and so, he keeps firing, drawing the beast's lethal attention to him. Then, for what feels like a nightmarish eternity, Bard runs for his life, darts to and fro through burning ruins and the icy water beneath, trying to stay clear of Smaug's pursuit and the roaring blasts of flame aimed at him. Somehow, in the mad flight, Bard has come back to the bridge and the bridge is somehow still standing, though bare of people now. On the other side, some faces still peer back, small and helpless wraiths in the smoke and the mist obscuring the entire world. But Bard does not flee toward them and to safety. There is no safety anywhere. There is only death bearing down upon him once again, and Bard has come to his last arrow.

Smaug has Bard in his sight, motionless at the end of the bridge, backlit by an entire town burning. And it is a wonderful sight, one last victim to crush, before the destruction is complete and then he can finally rest. That puny worm of a man is the only one who fought back, the only one to have the infernal arrows, but even so, he is but a fly to be swatted away. Still, Smaug wants to be closer and to see the death in the Man's eyes before it claims him. And so, he swoops down for the final fiery blow.

A clarity the likes of which he has never known before descends upon Bard and in it, he can see everything. He can see every star in the night sky, bright and cold and unafraid. He can see every scale on the beast's body as it flies straight toward him, can see the red maw opening and behind it, the glowing furnace inside the dragon's chest. And there... right there, a hole in the impenetrable armor. Without thought, Bard's hand pulls out his last arrow, the Black Arrow, though he does not see it. Bard's fingers and his arms do the work, his eyes never leaving that gap in the golden scales. Holding his breath, every inch of him still and poised, Bard waits, praying for true aim, praying for his love to be alive, praying that he might live to see his love again... but knowing that true aim is all that he can hope for. And then, the Black Arrow is released.

Smaug can feel the mortal blow when it comes and his bellow of fire turns into a piercing shriek of agony. Even as death puts out his fires, the beast crashes upon the bridge, impaling itself on the splintered pilings and hitting the water with a great, hissing splash. A great, final roar tears itself out of Smaug's throat, going up into the night in a fountain of steam. His violent thrashing brings down the last ruins of the bridge, his great claws reach for purchase, scoring wood but gaining nothing, growing weaker and weaker, until Smaug sinks into the dark, cold depths of water and of death.

And in death, those same claws come loose, releasing the body of Bard the Bowman, broken and rent and lifeless. If there were eyes to see, they would watch Bard gently rising to the surface, cold no longer a hurt to him, fire no longer a danger. Fire alone stands witness to the small smile on his lovely, still face. He is victorious in death and he knows it.

But in the Lonely Mountain, where screams now echo loud enough to wake the dead, there is no victory. Only ashes.

A/N: This is only part one of the outline. There is more sufering and drama to come. :)