Huff, huff...
Heavy breathing came from behind.
When the ground trembled slightly, Garrett knew he had to brace himself.
Body and stance ready!
"Oof—"
The next moment, he was bowled over and pinned to the ground under heavy weight.
A massive tongue slobbered all over his face, licking while whimpering with joy.
Garrett helplessly pushed the large head away. But the others were not nearly as calm as he was.
"A dragon!"
"We're under attack!"
Thorin drew his sword with wide eyes and lunged forward, Bard quickly pulled the bow from his back and drew it to full tension, and even Gandalf raised his staff defensively.
"Wait!"
Clang!
Staff and sword clashed, while Gandalf's grey robes blocked Bard's line of sight.
"Gandalf?"
"Easy now, all of you."
Garrett patted Wormi's head and gently pushed it aside.
"This isn't the kind of dragon you think it is."
Thorin and Bard frowned, exchanging uncertain glances. Out of trust in Garrett, and seeing that Wormi truly showed no hostility, they reluctantly lowered their weapons, but they remained tense and ready.
The Lonely Mountain and Dale... both had suffered too terribly at the claws of Smaug. Given the choice, they would gladly see every dragon in Middle-earth destroyed.
"A dragon?"
Gandalf questioned, studying the creature.
"Yet it carries no aura of malice, no avarice in its eyes. Apart from outwardly resembling a dragon, I can find no similarity at all."
"Fang, slow down!"
Just then, another voice called from nearby. The cook, who was responsible for Wormi's meals, was chasing after an old hound.
The moment Wormi spotted Fang, it immediately turned its head, trotted over, and gently nudged the dog with its snout. Dragon and hound then sat together before Garrett, looking up at him expectantly.
"My lord!" the cook greeted Garrett, then remained close to keep watch over Fang and Wormi.
Garrett nodded in return, then reached out to pet both heads, dragon on the left, hound on the right.
Hold on.
At that moment, he noticed something peculiar.
Wormi... it could actually be gentle, just as it was with Fang now.
So why was it always so eager to tackle him?
He narrowed his eyes, but all he saw staring back were those clear, innocent eyes, like those of a young puppy.
Fine.
Maybe it was some kind of animal instinct... perhaps sensing strength or fragility. If it pounced on Fang, the poor hound might not survive, but with him it was nothing, barely enough to trigger his shield's protective enchantments.
"If it's not an evil dragon, then what is it?" Thorin asked Gandalf, who remained silent for a long moment, feeling as though the world had just become even stranger than he'd imagined.
"Woof!"
Fang barked in a friendly manner.
"Woof!"
Wormi barked back, mimicking the sound perfectly.
"Did... did that dragon just bark like a dog?" Bard asked in disbelief, his eyes full of confusion.
"Perhaps the famed archer Bard should have his eyes examined," Gandalf said dryly.
Garrett sighed. "It's a dragon, but it learned a bit crookedly. I was thinking of sending it to school…"
For some reason, the moment Garrett mentioned this, Wormi shuddered visibly. Lowering its head and folding its wings, it slunk away, looking thoroughly dejected.
Its pitiful, skulking posture left everyone momentarily speechless.
A dragon... sulking.
Seeing Wormi leave, Fang followed loyally, with the cook trailing after them both to keep watch.
"Fascinating." Gandalf stroked his beard, his eyes never leaving Wormi.
"A dragon with a pure and innocent nature... it contradicts everything we know of their kind."
As one of the Maiar who had witnessed the Elder Days, Gandalf knew all too well what dragons truly represented.
In Arda, there had been no dragons, until Morgoth bred them as instruments of war and destruction.
Dragons, from their very creation, had been the embodiment of malice and shadow. Their natural inclinations and very essence were corrupt, coupled with an insatiable lust for gold and precious things.
That was something woven into their blood, the fundamental nature of their existence. It was not something that could be changed through gentle nurturing.
"This one is different from all other dragons. It's something entirely new."
So Gandalf declared.
"Fear not, Thorin, Bard. It only resembles a dragon in appearance."
"Exactly."
Garrett picked up the thread, gesturing toward Wormi in the distance, who was now contentedly nibbling at the grass.
"After all, what dragon would enjoy eating grass...?"
"Then I'll trust your word."
Thorin frowned, clearly still struggling to accept it. The shock of this revelation was simply too much for him to process easily.
"The people of Wayfort have grown quite accustomed to this dragon's presence."
Bard, who was skilled at reading situations, looked around and noticed that the townsfolk were comfortable with Wormi's presence. They paid it no special heed, nor did anyone show fear or alarm. On the contrary, their expressions seemed to soften when they looked upon it.
Though he had his own reasons to distrust dragons, he accepted Wormi more readily than Thorin.
After all, in this altered timeline, Smaug had been slain within the Lonely Mountain itself, never given the chance to devastate Lake-town as in the original course of events.
Compared to Thorin, who had witnessed the fall of Erebor with his own eyes and watched his kinsmen perish, his hatred was less personal. He knew only that his forebears had once ruled Dale and had been driven out by the dragon, but he himself had never witnessed such horrors.
In the end, the lives of Men were simply too brief. Generations passed swiftly, and within just a few lifetimes the memory of Dale's destruction had faded into mere history.
What remained vivid in the memory of elder dwarves was to Men little more than ancient lore.
"Time shows no mercy to any of us."
Thorin sighed. Even though he had lived through those dark days, the fall of Erebor had occurred in his youth.
Now, at over two hundred years of age, he was no longer young. For a dwarf, it meant his life had already passed its midpoint.
The longest-lived among the Khazad rarely reached more than three hundred years.
"Come now, enough with the grim faces."
Garrett clapped Thorin and Bard on the shoulders. "Today is a day of celebration in my realm. I was planning to gather everyone for a feast. What do you say, would you two care to join?"
"It would be an honor."
Thorin's expression brightened as he straightened his traveling clothes and gave a respectful bow.
"Thorin Oakenshield, at your service."
"Bard of Dale, at your service."
"What are you staring at? Do you expect an old man to bend his creaking bones as well?"
Gandalf grumbled with dissatisfaction.
After all, Garrett had said "you two," pointedly excluding him, the third member of their party.
"What a pity. The pipe-weed grown here in Wayfort is no worse than the finest of the Shire. I had been planning to share some with my wizardly friend..."
"Now, I was merely jesting."
Gandalf took off his hat and, with a sideways glance at Garrett, offered a proper courteous bow.
"By the way, there's something else that's caught my attention. I've been curious about it since first arriving. What exactly is that?"
He raised his staff, pointing at the beam of light that pierced the sky above the fortress.
Only then did Thorin and Bard notice the anomaly. They both craned their necks upward, squinting against the brilliant radiance.
"A beacon. A magical tool I made a few years back," Garrett explained.
"It grants blessings to those nearby, restoring vitality, speeding movement, increasing strength, that sort of thing."
"I went through quite a journey to obtain it."