In the heart of Fangorn Forest.
Treebeard's voice held no anger, only a deep, ancient curiosity. For an Ent, the "identity" of a creature was far less important than its "rhythm."
Smaug was delighted by this calm reception. "Dragons don't usually look like this, you're right," he chuckled from the Ent's shoulder. "Would you like to see my true form?"
"I suppose I could take a look," Treebeard rumbled. "It has been quite some time since I've seen a proper drake."
Smaug didn't hesitate. He scurried down to the forest floor, and in a blur of gold and crimson light, he reclaimed his true, 140-meter-long draconic form. The sheer scale of him—even compared to the ancient trees—was staggering.
Treebeard creaked, taking a slow, heavy step back. "Hoom... a very large dragon indeed!"
As he stared, his ancient memories seemed to click into place like gears in an old clock. "I remember now. Yes, dragons look like this. I recall fighting them, long ago. They were... very troublesome. Hard to weed."
He spoke of war as if he were discussing a difficult gardening season. There was no hatred in his voice, which was the best news Smaug had heard all year. Without a blood-feud, the path to recruitment was open.
Smaug shifted back into his Squirrel form and hopped back onto the Ent's shoulder.
"A very clever bit of magic," Treebeard remarked. "With a skin like that, you could go anywhere and no one would know you were a Fire-drake." He began to walk again, his massive roots thudding against the earth.
"Where are we heading, Treebeard?" Smaug asked.
"Home to sleep," Treebeard replied. "I've been out for a stroll. I think I've been walking for a very long time." He paused. "Do you know where my home is? I seem to have misplaced the memory of the direction."
"I know the way," Smaug laughed. "I'll lead the way."
"Thank you. You are a very helpful dragon," Treebeard said.
As they moved toward the Wellinghall, Smaug decided to dig for more lore. "Master Treebeard, do you remember much of the dragons of old?"
Treebeard was silent for a long moment. "A little... perhaps."
"Tell me about them," Smaug requested. "I am young, and much of the past is hidden from me."
"Very well," Treebeard rumbled, happy to have a captive audience. "Let us speak of the end of the First Age, and of Ancalagon the Black, the greatest of Morgoth's brood."
"He was a mountain of shadow, commanding a host of drakes that blotted out the stars. They were Morgoth's final, desperate weapon. Whenever they appeared, the world burned... until the War of Wrath."
"The Valar came from the West. Eärendil sailed the sky with a Silmaril upon his brow. Ancalagon fell, and his ruin crushed the peaks of Thangorodrim. Morgoth was taken, and the age of darkness ended."
Smaug listened with rapt attention, occasionally asking for details on flight patterns or the strength of the Valar's light. By the time they reached the Wellinghall, he felt a deeper connection to his own heritage—and a stronger resolve never to follow in Ancalagon's doomed footsteps.
"You're home, Master Treebeard," Smaug said as they reached the springs. "Thank you for the stories. I'll come back to visit you soon."
"Good," Treebeard nodded. "I have not spoken so many words in an age. It was... pleasant."
Smaug shifted into an Eagle and took to the sky, leaving the ancient Ent to his slumber.
The Tower of Orthanc
Smaug glided toward the black, jagged spire of Isengard. He found the architecture impressive—a blend of brutal strength and obsidian grace. He banked around the top level, peering through the high windows until he spotted Saruman.
The White Wizard was sitting at a massive wooden table, his face buried in a stack of old parchments. Smaug circled the tower, found a closed window near the Wizard, and tapped on the glass with his beak.
Ttap—ttap—ttap.
Saruman jumped, his head snapping toward the sound. A bird? No.
Smaug.
The Wizard wasn't a fool. He sensed the power behind the feathers. He stood up, clutching his staff, and walked toward the window with a measured, grim pace. He opened the latch.
"Long time no see, Saruman," the Eagle chirped, its voice tinged with amusement. "I hope everything is well in your little tower?"
Saruman's expression was cold as marble. "Everything was well... until this moment."
"Now, Saruman, I've flown a long way to visit you," Smaug replied, his tone sharpening. "That's a very rude way to greet a guest. I'll give you one chance to try that again, or I might decide your home is better suited as a bonfire."
Saruman's pride flared. No one had threatened him like this in centuries. "Smaug! Do not think I am a defenseless wood-elf! I have the power to break you!"
The Wizard raised his staff, the air beginning to crackle with white energy. But Smaug was faster. He leaped from the ledge and shifted mid-air.
ROAR.
The 140-meter dragon manifested against the sky, his wings beating a gale force wind against the tower. He opened his jaws and unleashed a stream of molten fire.
Saruman reacted instantly, casting a shimmering dome of white light that deflected the flames, but the heat sent him stumbling back into his study.
"I tried to be polite!" Smaug bellowed, his voice echoing through the valley of Isengard. "I gave you a chance, and you attack me? Is this your hospitality?"
"No wonder it's so quiet here! You have no friends because you're a bore!"
Saruman was nearly trembling with fury. The dragon wasn't just attacking him—he was insulting him.
~~----------------------
Patreon Advance Chapters:
[email protected] / Dreamer20