A/N: Sorry about the long wait. I official hate school.
Heimskur Töframaður og Dvergarnir: Stupid Wizard and Dwarves.
Thank you to ACreativeHobbit, Antex-the Legendary Zoroark, Steelrider, Britt30, Final Syai Lunar Generation, Amazing-Thalia-Grace, randomplotbunny, TheWhisperingWarrior, Guest, Moonpie, Guest, I heart vamps, and AmethystSiri for all revewing.
Chapter Five: A Willing Heart
"Bryngeir! Bryngeir!"
The emerald dragon, whose neck was curling royally in a perfect S-shape, swiveled his head around to see the blue and black clad Dwarf racing up the mountain slope. His lips parted back in a tired grin.
"Well it's about time that you arrived. I was afraid you skipped."
Thorin ran as quickly as he could to the Great Dragon. "You have no idea how long it takes for those Dwarves to get hammered."
Bryngeir tilted his head with amusment. "Watch yourself, you make it sound as if you're not one of 'those Dwarves'."
"I try not to get drunk." He laughed.
"Mmhm." The dragon snorted. "So, then, you're telling me you didn't bring the spirits?"
"Hold on, I didn't say that." Thorin defended in a playful manner.
"Oh, okay then. No hammering?"
"No."
Bryngeir gave a false sigh. "Well, then. All that liquor just for me."
"Oh no, you will not be drinking before flying."
"I have a few hours."
"Nope, not happening."
"Oh come on!"
"Aren't you supposed to be the older one?"
"Exactly why I know my limitations as a responsible, mature dragon for drinking liquor."
Thorin seated himself next to the dragon. "Pfft, you have no limitations. You could just keep drinking kegs if you really wanted to."
"Yes, well…" Bryngeir yawned. "I would stop, if I knew I had drunk enough."
"Tired?" The Dwarf asked, stretching out his arms.
"Being a king is hard." The Great Dragon admitted. "I have to look over all of our borders which stretch from the Ice Bay of Forochel to Carn Dûm and then all the way to the western border of Mordor."
"So you fly a lot, then."
"Mhm. It takes me about a week to do that patrol." He continued. "Most of the other Sky Racers take that patrol for me, though. I only have to observe once a month. After that, I have to keep tabs on the Treasure Seekers, Hunters, and Finders—the lot of them like sneaking out of our borders to go find gold and jewels for their hoards. I also make sure that the normal Hunters don't wander into lone dragon territories. Thorin, you have no idea how painful it is to be connected to the mind of every single Great Dragon within our borders."
Thorin hummed. "Well, perhaps…wait, can you hear them now?"
The emerald and gold dragon shifted his position a bit. "Yes."
"I'm amazed, in all honesty." The Dwarf prince marveled. "You can find all of your subjects just by thinking alone."
"Flattered as I am, it doesn't solve my problem." Bryngeir complained, scratching the gold-runed metal chains that stretched and dangled from his two largest horns.
"Perhaps this will?" Thorin suggested, pulling out a flagon.
The dragon's hazel-brown eyes widened. "Yes!"
"It thought it might." Thorin jeered, standing up and turning to the dragon.
Bryngeir opened his mouth slightly, sticking out his tongue. Thorin pulled off the cork stopper to the flagon and pour out most of the contents onto the dragon's bumpy red and blue tongue. It flicked back into the creature's mouth, curling so the contents wouldn't spill. For the dragon, it was hardly a swallows worth, but the taste was what he relished.
"Mmm, is this the special Durin's Day brew you were telling me about?" He asked with a swallow.
Thorin nodded, drinking the rest of the beer.
"Well, that was quite a lovely taste." The dragon nodded. "Thank you."
"No problem." Thorin smiled. "Next year, you will have to bring me that dragon's brew you were talking about."
Bryngeir cackled. "I'm still not convinced you can hold your liquor enough to drink that particular brew. It's not called Weeper's Beer for just amusement."
"I think I'd be fine."
"You would, you over-confident prince."
"Mean dragon king. You're always calling me names."
"Aw, don't be a hatchling."
"You're being mean."
"Thin-skinned."
"Uh…meanie?"
The two looked at each other before Bryngeir burst into laughter.
"Really, meanie? That was all you could come up with?"
"Shut up, Bryngeir!"
The dragon shook his head before looking out at the stars. His smile dimmed a bit. It would be time for him to head back soon. He didn't promise ever coming back because he always stood at threat with the Fire Drakes of the North. His Spies were always reporting of stray Drakes flying very close or into Smaug's territory. He knew that the prior king was in a foul mood about his win of kingship, and that he was planning something against the Great Dragons.
It's just a matter of time. Bryngeir thought ruefully, looking at the raven haired Dwarf who was contentedly leaning against his back.
"Hey, Thorin?" He spoke up.
The Dwarf rumbled an acknowledgement that he heard.
"You turned twenty-four full seasons, correct?"
"Mm, yes, last month."
The dragon nodded.
"Why?
"When hatchlings turn twenty-five," Bryngeir began, "their family unites declare them dragonets. This is their first step to maturity. At twenty-five, they are allowed to test their wings, because their bodies are now strong enough to with stand a fall should they drop from the air, and their wings are strong enough to carry our heavy bodies through the air."
Thorin listened intently.
"Being that you would be turning twenty-five full seasons next year, I want to give you a small taste of the birthday present I'll be giving you."
"There's no reason to give me a birthday—"
The Great Dragon rolled his eyes. "Just hop on, you stubborn Dwarf."
The prince's eyes widened considerably. "You…you mean—"
"Yes, I mean ride a dragon. Now get on, we don't have all night." Bryngeir snorted.
Thorin faced his friend again. "Where?"
The dragon hummed. "My head is fine. Between the largest horn and the one in front of it."
Bryngeir tried not to flinch as Thorin grabbed his smallest horn and used it to heave himself up onto the dragon's snout. The bulky hand ran over the chipped gold plates that lined themselves from the tip of the reptile's nose all the way to the tip of his tail. Despite what he may say, Bryngeir was built for war—with heavy metal-like plate scales ruining both along his top and his underbelly.
It was a ticklish sensation, to feel the soles of Thorin's boots walk along the plate scales. Bryngeir had to stop himself from laughing. He was probably the first of his kind to allow a Dwarf to ride on top a dragon. He had heard of his mysterious kin in the east that actually had an order of what they called Reiðmenn Drekar or Dragon Riders—but no one was actually sure if they existed.
"Should I sit or stand?" Thorin asked, his hands clutching the horn Bryngeir had suggested.
"Sit. Sit cross-legged, wrap your legs around the horn you're holding onto. I don't want you falling."
"Is that a possibility?"
"I wouldn't let you hit the ground if that's what you're asking."
"Wonderful."
Bryngeir rumbled. "Hold tight."
With that warning, he stood up. Thorin's intake of air was so brusque and so sharp, Bryngeir wondered if the Dwarf actually breathed in anything.
"I had known you were large, but…you're huge. The ground is so far below!" Thorin gaped, realizing that at this height, he was almost as high as the treetops.
"Nonsense, I'm quite averaged sized for a Great Dragon. There are quite a few, including Draupneir, who are larger than me." Bryngeir laughed, stretching out his wings.
"Draupneir has surpassed you in height?"
"Height, size, weight, you name it. That boy has become the largest dragonet I've ever seen. Most dragons have their growth spurt in their adulthood—but oh no, not my cousin."
"Congratulations then."
"Raising dragonets is hard too."
"No one said life was easy."
"True. Now, don't look down—alright?"
"Wait, what?" Thorin managed to shout out before he lost all sense of his weight.
The air was rushing on top of him, and his hair, coat, and armor all flustered about like sails to a ship in the great gust of wind. His grip tightened on the horn he was so precariously wrapped around. The dragon laughed.
"Open your eyes Dwarf, you can see so much from up here. Just don't look down—look out."
The wind was flustering all around him, event though all the dragon king was doing was hovering. It was then that the prince realized that the wind was coming from the dragon's own wings.
They're like a hurricane's wind. He thought with wonder. They have so much power—they are a storm unto themselves.
Shakily, Thorin forced his blue eyes open. The sight took away his breath. In the just blushing dawn, Erebor rose in all its splendor; a pale slate grey against a pink-black sky. The mountain towered ever so proudly while Esgaroth slept peacefully beneath it. The smile that gifted his face was one that Bryngeir had wished to see.
But the dragon wouldn't tell. He wouldn't tell that he may not be able to come back in time to give the Dwarf the rest of his birthday present.
He may not be able to come back at all.
~0oo0~
Bilbo awoke with a fluttering breath. His hand instantly going to his chest where the pain dully throbbed. Ever since yesterday evening, the wound on his chest had started hurting. But why? He had done nothing out of the ordinary. He had saved Peregrin, but that was the extent. He'd not tried to transform or…
The Dwarves.
There had been Dwarves in his home—but not just any Dwarves, but the Dwarves of Erebor. Which included Thorin; his Thorin. The one who he had thought fell under the claws of Smaug.
But he survived. That little voice in the back of the head told him. You both survived.
Jumping out of bed, Bilbo rushed out of his room. A smile graced his face and he was prepared this time to meet his guests. Of course, that was if there were guests to meet.
All through the smial, not a creature stirred not even a mouse. Bilbo stood confused in his blouse and trousers, thoroughly confused. There was no sign that the Dwarves had been in his home. No nasty scrape marks along the wall from their weapons, nor dirty mud tracks running along the carpet. Scared—scared that everything had been a dream—he began to search his home. His table was in order and so was his kitchen. The pantry was…empty.
That was a relief.
Wait.
"They left me!" Bilbo shouted, stomping his foot.
Not even a trace of Gandalf remained. Normally, the Wizard would at least stay the night to rest up from whatever journey he'd come from. But no, not this time. They'd all just gotten up and left while the dragon had been sleeping. What was it with others taking advantage of sleeping dragons? It was entirely unfair.
"The nerve! Heimskur Töframaður og Dvergarnir."
It took him a bit of wandering, but eventually he did find more evidence of last night's occupants. And what he found left him a bit happier. To the left, on the bench in front of the common area, lay the contract. It innocently dangled from the edge, failing miserably to not draw attention to itself. The Hobbit hurried over to it, snatching it up like a hawk. The signatures of both Balin and Thorin decorated the paper. One spot was missing a signature, though.
The burglar's spot.
Bilbo smiled, a small smirk on his face. Well that decided it, then.
He dashed back to his room and dropped to the floor. His hand reached under his bed until he found it. Pulling it out from under the furniture, Bilbo revealed a leather traveling pack. It had been his, when he and Belladonna had gone on adventures together. It'd been a long time when he'd done so, but it would still serve its purpose. Not really noticing what he threw into the bag, he grabbed his sleeping roll and tied it to the sack before sprinting out with traveling pack, and coat in hand.
Bilbo brought himself to the living room and grabbed the oaken box that rested on the mantle. He opened it and pulled out the strand of braid, shoving it in his pocket. After that he rushed into the kitchen until he found his emergency box of biscuits. He tossed those into his pack. He ran through the hall, grabbing the contract on his way out and burst through the door, not even bothering to lock it.
The Gaffer's got the spare keys to the smial anyways. He'll lock up for me.
He ran down the trails of the Shire, dodging people and jumping over obstacles. It was the closest to flying that he'd been to in years. The largest smile he'd worn in a long time painted his face as he raced through the Shire.
"Dear Mr. Bilbo, where on earth are you going?" Someone shouted out.
He didn't stop. "I'm going on an adventure!"
His heart pounded as he left Hobbiton's proximity. He ran and ran and ran. This was it. He was finally leaving his home after more than seven hundred years. Bryngeir of the Gilded Wings now Bilbo, was going to reclaim Erebor. Maybe, since hadn't been able to save it—he'd be able to gain it back.
I owe Thorin that much.
Finding the Dwarves was easy. Gandalf's scent carried along the wind, as did the rest of the other thirteen. They were traveling upwind. Bilbo laughed. The blasted Wizard was purposefully leading them upwind so that way he could find them. That Wizard.
Oh how I could kill him. He thought in the most loving, friendliest way he could.
It wasn't long before he saw the trail of ponies streaming slowly across the land. His smile wide and broad. He'd done it. Looking up, he'd realized that he'd reached his record running time. Fifteen minutes to find the Dwarves and reach them. Not bad for a Hobbit.
"Wait!" He called out. "Wait!"
Thorin called for a halt.
Gandalf looked back with a pleasantly smug grin.
I'll deal with you later Töframaður. He sauntered up to Balin. "I signed it, I did."
The old wizened Dwarf took out a set of spectacles and winked at him before looking to the contract. Bilbo waited with baited breath. Noticing Thorin's glower towards him. He glanced slightly to the Dwarf king, tilting his head in confusion. What'd he done?
Balin chuckled and the Hobbit looked up with a hopeful expression.
"Welcome to the company of Thorin Oakenshield, Master Baggins."
Bilbo sighed in relief. He'd done it.