Darkness was gathering. The world's fate was trembling. The storm clouds of war stacked higher and higher across the long sky.
Elves roared, Orcs bellowed, and an evil dragon—still sleeping—stirred restlessly.
All disputes and clashes were flowing toward Mount Erebor, that lost homeland of a fallen kingdom.
And at this very moment, the dwarves of the expedition were holding a barbecue party.
They had hunted a deer at dusk. Now, by night, they lit a campfire and shared the meat.
Out in the wild, you couldn't be as fussy as at a royal banquet. The food and seasonings the hobbit had brought from home were already running dry, so this roast—just bled, cut into chunks, and grilled—was still the best thing they'd tasted in days.
But meat alone couldn't lift the fatigue.
They'd been sleeping rough, eating in the wind and rain, all for one reason: to get closer to home, and farther from those Elves who'd gone mad.
Yes—at this point, it wasn't only Orcs hunting them anymore.
So they needed a drink.
Wizard Dumbledore produced a silver flask from who-knew-where. The wine inside was endless—enough to drink with abandon, enough to drink until the end of days. The dwarves went absolutely wild when they realized such a thing existed.
Thorin Oakenshield drank so much he turned into Thorin Oakenshielded-Barrel.
"Drink! Drink more!"
"And this Balin—he's drunk after only a few barrels!"
Ever since escaping the Woodland Realm, the Lonely Mountain was practically within reach.
Follow the Forest River downstream and you reached Lake-town.
From Lake-town, head north, and you reached Erebor.
They were camped on the shore of the Long Lake now.
The dwarves clapped out a beat and sang their songs again, bright and merry.
Thorin, that old bastard, was deep in his cups—lifting his goblet and delivering yet another bizarre speech full of nonsense. He claimed he would contact his cousin, Dáin Ironfoot, King of the Iron Hills, and spread these grudges far and wide, ensuring that dwarven descendants would forever remember the humiliation inflicted on Durin's line by Orcs and Elves alike.
By the fire, Dumbledore held the filter in his hand, his expression complicated.
He had already discovered a curse hidden inside that prank toy—and it was what drove Thorin's raving.
According to Skyl's soul theory, most curses take effect on the outer layer of the thought-body. This toy's curse worked the same way: it represented a set of collective, ugly human memories, and the curse would turn into "thought-strings" that sank into the thought-body.
The curse itself was weak—after all, it was meant for pranks and atmosphere—but for individuals already in a bad state of mind, the reaction could become unusually intense.
Thorin's state of mind was very bad.
His forebears had possessed one of the Seven Rings of the Dwarves, and the Seven had been placed under the Dark Lord's influence. They could give their bearer dragon-sickness—greed and miserly possessiveness, like a dragon crouched on gold. That madness passed down through blood, and now the dragon-sickness lurking in Thorin's soul had been provoked by the curse, twisting his temperament toward obsession and paranoia.
Dumbledore didn't know the deeper truth behind the Seven Rings, but he worried for Thorin—and for the dwarves' fate.
Hatred was a terrifying wildfire. Like a wizard's Fiendfyre, it could indeed overwhelm powerful enemies… but it could also consume the one who cast it, and swallow everyone nearby.
The dwarves were fiercely loyal to Thorin. None of them objected to his words; they kept cheering, and their praise only fed his swagger.
"Wizard sir! Why the long face?" Bilbo poured Dumbledore a full cup. "Have a drink!"
Dumbledore set the filter down and drained the cup in one go. Then he gripped the Elder Wand and said to the burglar beside him, "Baggins—if even you are dazzled by these poisonous words, and end up supporting Thorin… I truly won't know what to do."
The campfire fell abruptly quiet.
Thorin's speech was cut short. Everyone stared at Dumbledore in shock.
Dumbledore rose and pointed his wand at Thorin.
"My friends—how can you reclaim Erebor by following a madman like this?"
Thorin exploded. "Wizard—what do you mean by that?"
"You've lost your mind, Thorin. Can't you see it?" Dumbledore was calm, simply stating what was true. "Listen to your own ravings. And you call yourself a king? You show no care for your people, letting rage burn them like kindling. Stirring conflict with Orcs and Elves—besides satisfying your private desires, does it improve the dwarves' situation at all?"
"You know nothing of dwarven history, wizard!" Thorin snarled. "Our fall has everything to do with those two kinds of vermin!"
"It's true—I know nothing of dwarven history," Dumbledore said, stepping closer and closer. "But I know the history of hatred. I know how it spreads through a country, how it provokes people into fearing and attacking each other. Tell me—do you want a prosperous Erebor, or an Erebor covered in scars? For a king, enduring humiliation can be a virtue. You must always cast aside the selfish urge of anger, and place the people's welfare above all else."
Thorin glared at him.
In that human's sea-blue eyes was pain and sorrow, deep as ocean water—drowning Thorin's rage, little by little.
Slowly, Thorin calmed. He turned his face away and said coldly, "Enough. We won't speak of this again."
"I will save your soul," the old wizard answered, unwavering.
The night by the Long Lake was cold enough to make you shiver. The crackle of the fire sounded sharp and harsh.
Then a human man emerged through the night fog and approached the campfire. He was one of Lake-town's guards.
"Hey. What are you doing out here? Creeping around nearby."
Dwalin stepped forward to negotiate. "We're merchants from the Blue Mountains. Heading to the Iron Hills to visit family, that's all."
Thorin cut in, blunt as an axe. "We need a boat—one that can take us across the lake, northbound."
"You're going to the Lonely Mountain?" The man's instincts were sharp.
Dwalin hurried to smooth it over. "No—just passing through."
Thorin cut in again. "We're going to Erebor."
"A bunch of dwarves heading back to the Lonely Mountain…" The hostility on the man's face eased. "There's still a dragon there. What do you have that can deal with it?"
Dwalin grinned. "We have a wizard."
Thorin cut in yet again. "We have no way to deal with it. We've only prepared ourselves to die there."
The man's expression turned solemn with respect. "A remarkable decision."
The expedition members all looked at Thorin anxiously. Bilbo tugged at Dumbledore's sleeve.
"Don't be afraid." The old wizard lowered his gaze to meet Bilbo's. "You won't die beneath dragonfire."
The man said, "Come with me. I'll take you to the Master. Whether you get a boat depends on whether he agrees."
"What's your name?"
"Bard."
"If I take back the throne of Erebor," Thorin said, "you will be rewarded."
"Lake-town has always sung poems about the return of the King under the Mountain." Bard led them toward the town. "Maybe you aren't the King of Erebor fate itself has chosen… but everyone hopes this day comes soon."
In the old days, the wealth that slipped through dwarven fingers had once fed the City of Dale below the Mountain. Back then, Dale's people lived rich and happy lives. Every craftsman who worked in Erebor received lavish rewards, and everyone begged for a chance to labor for the dwarves.
Smaug's arrival shattered that golden dream.
After the dragon's devastation, the survivors gathered at Lake-town and passed down the stories of Erebor's treasure from generation to generation. Everyone longed for the King under the Mountain to return and lead them back into prosperity.
In Lake-town, the dwarves received a warm welcome. Then they boarded a great boat and traveled north against the current, toward the mountain where the dragon slept.
Two days later, when the expedition finally reached the foot of the mountain and stood on solid earth, looking up at grim, dark Erebor—and at the scorched wasteland around it, burned bare by dragonfire—those hearts that had been full of courage finally climbed into their throats.
Bard stood on the boat and called to them, "Good luck."
"And you?" someone asked.
"Of course I'm going home." The boat turned and drifted back downstream.
Under that miserable sky, Thorin stood still, suddenly afraid to take another step.
But Dumbledore stepped forward.
He advanced toward the Door of Erebor, toward that black maw in the mountainside. Smoke curled there—dragon-breath—gathering along the slope into dark clouds, scorching the rock until it glowed red and cracked.
"Hey! Wizard!" Thorin shouted after him.
Dumbledore stopped.
One by one, the expedition members walked up to his side.
Thorin's face was hard. "I'll prove it to you. To reclaim our homeland, Durin's descendants do not fear death."
The dwarves pounded their fists against their chests and let out an ancient war-cry—a dirge prepared by those who went to die with open eyes.
Burglar Bilbo Baggins pressed his lips together and said nothing, but he stood in the same line with them.
Dumbledore's eyes grew wet. The mood had reached this point—he was deeply moved too.
Then he made a phone call.
"Hello, Dragonborn? Yeah, this is Albus Dumbledore. You free right now? Interested in slaying a dragon together?"
He hung up, and the old educator smiled with the expression of a man with vast connections.
"All right. I've called in reinforcements."
Seems like I haven't wished everyone happiness in a few days, huh? Heh. Something this important—how could I forget? I just didn't want you to get too used to it and start finding it boring, so I deliberately took a short break. After all, you can't force happiness, can you?
//Check out my P@tre0n for 20 extra chapters on all my fanfics //[email protected]/Razeil0810.