Click on My Computer
Click on (C:)
Click on Windows
Click on Media
Click on Onestop
Trust me you will be shocked
does anyone else find it disturbing that cinderella
is slowly starting to look weirdly young
Post with 1 note
*gets on computer*
*hums to music*
-repeat until end of days-
Post with 2 notes
So I (attempted) wrote my own ending to J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit. (credit goes to everyone who had a part in TLOTR/The Hobbit) If you’ve never read it, it’s easy to get captivated. If you’ve already read The Hobbit, this stars off after the scene with Smaug attacking Laketown. Of course I’ms till working on it. I greatly appreciate EVERY like and reblog (and i smile like an idiot). It’s just for fun, so skip if you like!
Wings of Fire
With a blackened arrow lodged in his heart, the dragon glared at its executioner, as his last powerful breaths fell upon him. His fiery eyes were slowly losing their vivid colour.
“That’s strange,” thought his killer, “I’ve never seen a dragon’s eyes lose their colour in dea-“Suddenly, the dragon started laughing. Giant, gnarling, guffawing shook Lake-town, and the water surrounding it. Smaug the Terrible, laughing in death?
“What is it?” the Bard demanded. “You did not know,” the enormous dragon breathed, using his final words, “That I am a certain fire dragon. I am the only certain one in all of Middle Earth for a very, long time.” Smaug breathed his final breath, or rather, a chuckle.
“Finally, the antiquity is gone, yet I wonder what he means,” the Bard said to himself, looking at the beast’s eye, partially ajar. He leaned forward to inspect the beast, and people came out of their humble houses to see that it was truly deceased. “Perhaps Smaug means there is something about his scales,” the Bard mumbled, for he was poor, as everyone else, and dragon scales and teeth sold at very high prices. He put his hand on one the dragon’s cold, blood-red, magnificent scales, but as soon as his finger touched the plating, every existing colour in the beast faded into a darkened grey. He jerked his hand back, and looked at the people’s both curious and frightened eyes. He turned back to face Smaug, and slowly put his hand towards the same scale. As soon as his finger touched it, there was a sudden rumbling. The entire form of the dead dragon disintegrated into ash, except the black arrow. The Bard staggered back, and fell onto his back, not knowing what to do as some people screamed and the ash sank into the deep waters of Lake-Town. Every living thing that saw what had occurred shared the same exact thought, “Impossible.” In all of the long years of Middle-Earth, this has never happened before.
A bright spark in the water immediately caught his attention. “Water cannot catch on fire,” thought the Bard, as he quickly jumped to his feet and kneeled down on the side of the dock to see what was happening in the water. There was a sudden sound, like a cannon being repeatedly fired, or in this case, a newly-born adult dragon pushing furiously against the water’s current with its powerful wings to rise to the surface.
Now, the thrush had stood on a post and watched this happen. He flew as fast as he could, bringing Roäc, an old raven, back to the Lonely mountain, where the Dwarfs and the Hobbit waited. The raven translated what the thrush spoke, and the thrush spoke of Smaug’s re-living. “Smaug had been struck by the black arrow, and was clearly dying. He turned to ash, and was reborn in the depths of the water that surrounds Lake-town,” the wise bird spoke in native tongue, so the dwarves could understand. “Where is he now?” demanded Thorin, fearing that the dragon may come back to reclaim the gold. “He has flown towards the Misty Mountains, but we do not know for sure,” Roäc answered. “When you say reborn,” uttered the Hobbit, “Do you mean he was reborn into a small, harmless dragon?” The thrush answered almost instantly. ”I am afraid not. Smaug is bigger and faster than before, and has wings of flame. He only saw him for a moment,” the raven told. “Also,” he added, “There is a rather large group of men and elves coming up the mountain, wanting part of the treasure.” The thrush and his companion flew off in different directions, leaving the Dwarfs, and the Hobbit, alone.
The thrush had flown back to Lake-town, to figure out where Smaug had journeyed. “I too, am curious where Smaug has wondered off to,” he thought, “and maybe I could be of much help to everyone.” When he reached Lake-town, he went to the Bard, who was really the only person who knew the most information of what happened. The thrush did not need to worry about bringing Roäc, since the Bard knew his ancient language, and could easily speak it, too. The Bard was still standing on the dock, trying to figure out what happened, and what will happen.
“Greetings, Bard. Do you happen to know where Smaug has gone off to?” the bird chirped in his ancient language. “I only know that he flew towards the Misty Mountains, nothing else,” he barked, also in the thrush’s language. “Are you alright? You look terrible,” worried the bird.
“I just witnessed the most powerful dragon in Middle-Earth be reborn even more powerful. There is no saying what destruction he can do, and you ask if I’m alright?” he said rather loud, causing people to turn and glance at the two. “Yes, that and if you know where Smaug went,” he replied happily. The Bard laughed. He has known his bird-friend for a long time now. “He flew over in that direction. You should start there. What are you even doing, following a dragon?” the Bard wondered.
“Well, I hope to help Smaug reconsider going after the treasure, if that is what he thinks he ought to do,” tweeted the thrush. “Well, good luck on your journey, my friend, and come back alive, alright?” joked the Bard. “Of course. I promise to be back in four days’ time. Goodbye, Bard,” and off flew the Thrush on his journey.
Smaug had flown to the northern part of the Misty Mountains, and had made a cave big enough for him to rest. “Who am I?” he wondered, for a consequence of regeneration is not knowing who or what you are, and what you are supposed to do. When Smaug was flying over the water, he had glanced down at his reflection, and saw a pure black dragon with flaming wings glancing back. All he knows, at the moment, is that he had to get away from things to think, so here he was, in a cave in a mountain, thinking about everything. He wondered why the people were shouting at him when he left, and why a small town like that was nearly nullified. “Did I do that?” he wondered. “I could have,” he thought, “but why would I?” Smaug looked out onto the horizon. “That is a big mountain,” Smaug thought, seeing the Lonely Mountain. “Wasn’t I there one time?” Flashes of gold and silver rushed into his mind. “There was lots of gold there. I remember that.” Smaug tried his best to stay awake and remember things for a while. “Maybe dreams will bring my memories to me,” he proposed, and curled up and fell asleep.
Now, flying from Lake-town to the Misty Mountains, is about three or four hours for a dragon, but for a common thrush, it’s eight hours. However, the thrush was remarkably resolute to save Lake-town, and was beating his little wings as hard as he could. As fast as he was going, he will arrive in three hours less. Later, he reached the mountain range, and his eyes were led to a large, rough hole in the middle of a mountain that looked conspicuously large to hold a dragon. “How obvious,” the bird thought to himself, and he glided over to it. As soon as he got there, he immediately saw the large beast snoring in the corner. “I’d rather not wake a sleeping dragon,” he muttered, and quietly flew to the opposite corner, made himself as comfortable as he could, and fell fast asleep.
The next morning, the delicate bird was awoken by a loud yawn from Smaug. The dragon had not noticed the tiny bird in the far corner, and was gazing at the horizon again. The thrush shook himself awake, and cautiously hopped over to Smaug. Only slightly startled, Smaug looked over at the small bird, and said, “Good Morning little bird.” The thrush had prepared for the dragon to launch himself at him, and devour him whole, but instead had gotten a warm hello from the great beast.
“Good morning to you too,” he stuttered, thinking he was tricking him by being nice, and then was going to gobble him up. “Do not worry, my friend. I’m not going to eat you,” Smaug assured. Smaug did not know how mean he was before, and thought himself nice. “Don’t you know what you did? Aren’t you going after the Lonely Mountain?” the thrush asked softly. “I cannot remember anything. What have I done, and why would I travel to that mountain?” asked the dragon, motioning towards the Lonely Mountain with his webbed talon.
“Well, you uh…,” the thrush worried he would make Smaug remember the damage he had done. “Go on, little one,” Smaug encouraged. “Well, you used to live in the Lonely Mountain…,” informed the bird. Smaug lowered his huge head down to the small creature to listen better. He now had Smaug’s full attention. “Yes, and?”
The thrush was a truthful, little bird, and for once in his long life, he will tell one of the biggest lies in Middle-Earth. Wanting to save the Bard, his long-known friend, the thrush wanted greatly to lead Smaug in the opposite direction. Taking a shuddering deep breath, the Thrush spoke audaciously. “You greatly hated Trollshaw and the Shire, but mostly Rivendell and Hobbiton.” The thrush knew he would get in much trouble but at least no one will die. “Whyever is that, young one?” Smaug curiously catechized. Occasionally stopping to think, the thrush answered, “You lived in the Lonely Mountain, and in there is a lot of gold there. The people of Hobbiton and Rivendell wanted to take all of that gold, so they drove you away, and now they are safe in their towns with all the gold they want.” The thrush was getting more confident with his lies, but he kept telling himself, “At least no one else will die.” When a dragon loses its memory, it can be changed, and parts will still remain, but the bird did not know this. Smaug had suddenly remembered there being a conflict, like he and the people of the towns were fighting over the mountain, and he remembered destroying one, too. “Didn’t I destroy the one on the lake?” Smaug asked the bird. Not wanting his friend to get hurt at all, he panicked and said, “No, no, not that one. It was Rivendell. They have water around them, too.”
“I thought I flew from that direction,” and motioned in the direction of Lake-town. The bird could see Smaug was getting agitated, so he softly said, “No, you flew from the opposite direction, from west of the Misty Mountains.” Smaug sighed, and looked hopefully at the thrush. “You are the only one right now that I can believe. I hope you are right little one. You can stay if you like, but I am off to eat,” and with that, he beat his wings, and awkwardly flew down towards the forest. “Smaug sounded rather suspicious with the way he said that. He won’t be too long,” the bird figured. Still tired from the flight, he fell asleep in the little nest he made from the last night. He figured he would be staying for a while. What the Thrush did not know, was that Smaug was growing more powerful by the minute.
In Rivendell, Elrond and the people of his kingdom have been celebrating the death of Smaug. Only Lake-town, the dwarves, Bilbo, and the thrush know of Smaug’s re-living. The song they sang ran through Trollshaw like a powerful blast of wind.
Smaug I’ Aica naa ba (Smaug the Terrible is dead)
Sii’ tela a’ lye gor (Now an end to our dread)
Ten’ sii’ I’ sgiathatch (For now the dragon)
Naa neh ner ar’ (is no more and)
Ya neh ner au’ hinual (Who no more again will speak)
Keryth ent gurtha naa wanwa (War and death are gone)
Neh ner megil ier oio magh (No more swords are ever used)
Neh ner eny naa oio net (No more battles are ever won)
Ban I’ sgiathach ya naa moro (Against the dragon who is dead)
Lye yunl nae ho gurtha (We drink to his death)
Ar’ ho sai tella soeh (and his very last breath)
Sinome aul I’ ardhon en’ Rivendell (Here in the land of Rivendell)
The elves usually only celebrated guests that arrived, or celebrations, like the death of Smaug, and their celebration will go on for many days. Even Galadriel, the Lady of the Lake, was enjoying the celebration. She was wearing a dress called, “Haly en’ I anar,” or, “Shades of the Sun,” and it did indeed look like the sun. It was a bright yellow, with dashes of white, and caught everyone’s attention. She stood up to make a toast, which she does every celebration. “Vedui’, il’er, (Greetings, everyone),” she spoke, and everything quieted to hear her silver-smooth voice. “Vee’ llie ilya sint, Smaug I’ ksh naa moro. (As you all know, Smaug the Terrible is dead.)” Everyone in the hall cheered as loud as they could. “Lye gala tella nelde anoron, ent Keryth naa n’ nae mart aul Tanya commae. (Our celebration shall last three dawns, and war is not to happen in that time.)” All of the Elves’ weapons and armor were either in their dwelling, or in the lowest part of the castle, for the Elves of Rivendell were always peaceful. When they heard Smaug had perished, the Elves’ weapons were immediately put away. They decided they would be armed after the celebration, for they knew that every Dwarf, Orc, Hobbit, and everything else would be sharing the celebration of Smaug the Terrible’s death, and no conflict was to happen. Happy with Lady Galadriel’s speech, Elrond sat back in his golden, but uncomfortable, chair, and drank his favourite wine. Everyone in the dining hall did the same, while still chanting the song of the Dreadful Dragon’s Death.
For regeneration in such a large creature, Smaug’s power was growing greater than it was before. His flame burned bright with the colour of anger and envy. He beat his wings hard against the winds of the Misty Mountains, and was gaining impressive speed. He could feel his fiery throat burn with his hatred towards the Elves of Rivendell. Smaug was a pitch black dagger of speed in the night, his scales reflecting in the light of watchful stars. His unimpeachable rage burned the very air he flew in, leaving streaks of fire in the night sky. He growled with every pulse of his heart. The dragon was headed for Rivendell.
Almost every Elf in the dining hall was either sleeping, or had left. Elrond, satisfied with the first day of the celebration, walked towards Lady Galadriel, who was looking intensely into the stars of the faded night sky.
“Amin arwe- (Milad-) “
“N’nir nat’ naa raika. I’ goliath naa quell ent I’ teu naa n’ Sinome nae aelo amin. (Something is wrong. The stars are faded and the moon is not here to meet me). Lady Galadriel looked deeply worried. Elrond was born with exceptional hearing, and used his talent wisely, so he listened. What he heard terrified him to his heart. Panicked reached towards him, eager to see what he will do. “Llie naa forya. Amin ten daquin. (You are right. I hear danger.)” Lady Galadriel saw great fear forming in Lord Elrond’s eyes. “Mani uum llie ten? (What do you hear?)” Galadriel cautiously asked. “Am…” Elrond looked straight into Galadriel’s eyes, and spoke with a clear, but shaking voice.
“I hear the sound of dragon wings.”
Running as fast as they could, the two Elves rushed around the sleeping castle to wake as many as they could. It wasn’t working out well, for most of the Elves drank merrily, and were still groggy from only a few hours ago. Elrond had successfully gotten five of his soldiers, and took three to acquire the weapons, and four to continue with the waking. The dragon was getting closer. Elrond could hear it was out of breath. The only thing going through his mind was to wake the people and get the weapons, all the while listening to the dragon. Suddenly, like an arrow splitting his skull, a thought came tearing through his mind. He tried to push the thought away, and concentrate on getting the weapons. He dropped the weapons he held and rushed to the nearest balcony. He gazed fearfully into the stars, and saw a path of disappearing, then reappearing stars, as if something was blocking the light they shone. He looked harder, straining his eyes to focus on what could or could not be there. Then he saw it. The sky was burning with the most powerful energy Lord Elrond has ever felt in all six thousand years of his life. It was more powerful than Smaug was ever before. The burning was hotter, and it felt as if whatever has been coming, was coming closer at an impossible speed.
The last thing Lord Elrond saw was an eye of the burning fire of rage and envy.
The castle was still burning when the Giants arrived. They were the first to see the enormous flames licking the sides of the valley in which Rivendell resided. It took six hours to put the fire out. When the Giants investigated the kingdom that they despised since the beginning of time, many had to stop, for the scene was murderous. Sadness struck their fierce hearts, but a sliver of hope showed them the way towards a voice restlessly calling for help. A throng of Giants came upon a blackened lintel, and it seemed to be the source of the cries, so they lifted the giant pillar easily. Under it, they found Lord Elrond, all battered and bloodied, with his clothes all hewn. It looked like something had taken a large bite out of the entire left side of his mutilated body. He was muttering nonstop about nonsense it seemed, but the Giants were able to translate the repeating words he spoke, which were, “The dragon is back, arm yourselves, wake up,” over and over again until finally, he met his end. The Giants no longer knew what to do, so as Giants always are, they started to look for useful things in the debris, but could find nothing. No weapons, clothing, or even spoons could be found, for the fire had disintegrated them all. Rivendell was now “Tal en I’ Sgiathatch Umbar”, or, “City of the Dragon’s Fate.”
Fish for Dinner
Both story and rumor of Rivendell’s devastating destruction, and Smaug’s possible marauding of it, infected all of Middle-Earth, except for two places, which were Lake-town, and Smaug’s dwelling in the Misty Mountains, where the Thrush had slept through it all. The exhausted dragon had returned, as silent as an owl’s wings, to his cave at the crack of dawn. He was pleased with what he had done, although he did not find any gold whatsoever. The happy Thrush, not aware at all what had happened, had woken up at least an hour later, and had been warming his feathers in the new morning’s reddened sun. Smaug had been woken up by the bird’s beautiful, bright, never-ending, flutelike song, and groaned, rather loud, and rolled onto his side. The Thrush stopped his singing, hopped over to the massive creature’s face, cocked his head, and whispered what a splendid morning it was. “Leave me alone. I’m tired from…hunting last night,” the Dragon growled. “Oh, alright,” the Thrush huffed. “I myself should be off to eat. I shall visit my friend in Lake-town, also,” and with that, he flew off into some trees to catch a snail or two.
“I did not find any gold, or silver, in Rivendell,” Smaug thought when the bird had left, “It must be hidden somewhere in Hobbiton, then. Now that I think of it, I never saw any weapons in Rivendell either,” and with that, Smaug had pondered himself asleep.
A few hours later, the Thrush had reached Lake-town, and found the Bard a few miles from the docks on his boat, fishing, as usual. He circled around his friend, and landed on his shoulder. “Ooh can I have a fish? Pretty please?” he begged, even though he had just eaten. The Bard looked frozen, like a statue. “Bard? Bard are you alright? Helloooooo?” The Thrush flew right up to his nose, and as soon as he did, the Bard screamed as loud as he could, and the poor bird was sent flying back into a barrel of freshly-caught tuna. “I am sorry, my friend. It was only a trick,” and as he chuckled, he held out his hand his little friend could hop onto it. “So what did you learn?” the Bard asked. “Well,” and with that the Thrush began his story from when he first left to find Smaug, went through all of the little details his little mind could remember, and ended with when he nearly had a heart attack from the Bard scaring him.
“Smaug does not remember anything from before?” the Bard questioned. The Thrush hesitated, hopped from one delicate foot to the other, and finally responded with a strong, but hesitant, “Yes.” As the sun reached the low horizon, and the vivid colours of the sky faded to a darkened blue, they finally began to sail back to Lake-Town. ”I almost forgot,” the Bard added, “We have received our great share from the new king under the mountain.”
The exhausted bird was fast asleep on a partially eaten catfish. The Bard smiled and sighed, and gazed upon the growing form of Lake-town. The sky faded from a blackened-blue, to a purple, into a dark orange near the horizon, and was filled with stars of every colour. As he looked into the water, he could see the reflections of the bright, all-knowing, whispering stars above, and the shadows of the mysterious, darting creatures below. Gazing into the water, he remembered the dragon bursting out of the deep, and flying towards the Misty Mountains. He tried to replay every detail he could remember, and wondered if Smaug really did not remember who he was, or what he had done. He wished the dragon would, so he could remember the deaths he made, and truly how terrible he had been, but at the same time, he did not wish that. If Smaug remembered, would he not go after the gold in the Lonely Mountain again? As he pondered about that, his boat softly bumped into the dock, snapping him out of his deep thought. Safely passing by the sentinels, he tied up his boat, rolled the barrels of freshly caught fish into the trading shop, tucked the Thrush into his left pocket, and headed for home.
The Thrush had been awakened to one of the Bard’s children knocking over the entire dining room table, then silence. The light reflecting off of the shimmering, blue-green water outside kept him from falling asleep again. Looking up, he could see all of the things the Bard had collected. From ancient coins and rings lost in the lake, to small statues and dangling spears. The light of the morning sun was eagerly lightening everything in its path, like a torch, through the window. The shutters had been quiet all night, except now there was a constant banging from the breeze pushing them against the side of the small home. He cleaned his dirtied feathers, shook his tail, yawned very big, and flew downstairs.
As he dodged the hanging trinkets and landed on a rung on the wooden ladder, a chair fell onto the floor, knocked over by one of the children. He caught up to the running children, flew around the three children’s heads to get their attention, and he did.
“Alright, everyone calm down! Where is your father?” Tilda, the youngest daughter of Bard, tripped over the fallen chair, and Sigrid, her older sister, helped her up. Bain, who was a bit older than Sigrid, answered, “He went out to collect the money he earned from fishing. He should be back by no-“and with that, the Bard walked in through the door with a pile of long sticks in his arms.
“Daddy’s home!” he managed to say, and dropped the bundle of sticks onto the table. His children ran over to him, Tilda tripping once more, and hugged him tight. Bain motioned towards the bundle. “What are these for, dad?” The Bard, picking up Tilda, walked over and picked up a long stick. “Those are for fishing! I sharpen one end, so I can spear the fish that are further below. Like this,” and he playfully jabbed the stick at Bain. “When can I go fishing with you, papa?” asked Sigrid. “I’m sorry, but you have to stay here and take care of the home. It’s an important job.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Well, what would happen if we did not wash the silverware?”
Sigrid twiddled her thumbs. “They would not be clean enough to be used.” The Bard nodded. “And we would get ill. What about the clothes? What would happen if we did not wash our clothes, Sigrid?” The Bard raised one eyebrow. “We would be very smelly!” chimed the youngest, and waved her hand in front of her nose. “That’s right Tilda,” the Bard laughed. “I guess you’re right, father,” sighed Sigrid. “Guess who gets to go fishing in one year? Me! Because I have to learn how to fish and not you!” teased Bain. “Well you’ll never learn how to cook as well as me,” Sigrid teased back. “Alright, alright. Stop your quarreling, you two, and let’s eat. Where is our friend, the Thrush?”
“Right here,” the bird responded, and landed on one of the sticks. “Guess what we’re having tonight, Bain?” The three children sighed rather loud. Finally Bain looked up at his dad, and whispered, “Fish?”
“Yes! We will have fish tonight!” Bain slapped a huge half-shark half-fish onto the table.
“Like every night before,” groaned Tilda. “And probably every after,” added Sigrid. “Well at least you haven’t slept next to the most dangerous dragon in all of Middle-Earth before.” The children looked aghast. “Tell them what you told me last night,” said the Bard, and proceeded to skin the giant shark-fish. The children sat around the little bird, except for Bain, who had started shaping the wood into spears, but he still listened. Then began the great story.
When the Thrush had finally finished, the sky was darkening, Bain had shaved all of the long sticks into spears, and the giant shark-fish had been skinned, cut, and cooked to perfection. Luckily, none of the children had fallen asleep during the long story, and they clapped for the Thrush, who nearly fell off of his perch because he was standing for so long. They took their places at the long table, the bird placing himself between Bain and Sigrid. The children reached eagerly for the meat, but their father stopped them. “What do we have to do before we eat?” he said. “Not now father! We’re hungry!” whined Tilda. The Bard whined back, “But we have company! We must show him what we do,” and he started a steady beat by banging his hand on the table’s edge. All three of the children groaned, and they apathetically dropped their hands onto the table, struggling to keep the beat.
In the lake of Rivendell
Swim the fish, in the water they dwell
We catch them all and whoever’s the winner
Gets to be on our plate for dinner
We fish for them, we go down deep
Until we have a very large heap
Of fish to eat, of fish to sell
Oh, the stories we will tell
To our families, warm and strong
Where brother and sister both get along
(At this part,Sigrid and Bain were making faces at each other)
To sing the ballad, Rivendell’s song
As soon as the melody ended, the children quickly seized the meat that was placed in front of them. “Well, did you like it?” the Bard questioned while calmly taking a large chunk of meat off of a silver plate.
“It was lovely, and really described Rivendell,” the Thrush complimented, as he himself took a few pecks out of a small piece of the shark-fish. “I make the children sing it every night that I can make them,” the Bard proudly said, and nudged Tilda, who was playing tug-of-war with her brother over a tasty piece of meat, and she let go.
“I see how much they love singing it,” the Thrush sarcastically replied. The Bard laughed, took a bite out of what looked like a fin, and said with his mouth full, “One day they, too, will make their children sing the song of Rivendell.” After twice more singing the song of Rivendell, the children had fallen asleep at the dinner table, so the Bard carried them to their rooms, and bid them goodnight. The Thrush had been warming his tail feathers by the fire, and the Bard came to join him. “Tomorrow I shall return to Smaug, to check up on him,” informed the now comfortably warm bird.
“Are you sure you cannot stay another night?”
“I’m afraid not,” sighed the Thrush. “I’ll be back in two days’ time, so don’t worry.” The Bard shifted in his chair. “Are you going to fly alone again, or would you like me to bring you to the other side of the River?”
“Don’t waste your time. I’ll be just fine on my own, thank you.”
“Rest as long as you like. I shall most likely be out on the Lake when you return. Search for me there,” and with that, the Bard gave the Thrush a pat on the head, and went to his own room to rest himself.
The Thrush did not get much sleep at all, not even with the warm fire or the calming sounds of the lake. He had been through a terrible nightmare. There was fleeing and destruction, screams and crying. There was an angry, burning fire, consuming the castle in which it was placed. There was what sounded like a gigantic, airy heartbeat, sort of like dragon wings repelling the air around it to hover. There was suddenly an eye. A flaming eye, filled with envy and anger, and as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone, and the Thrush was awake with a quickened heartbeat. With a great yawn, he shook himself awake, a little too hard, fell onto the couch with a soft thud, shook himself again, and took off through the open window.
While the Thrush was gone, Smaug had been practicing flying, and was slowly getting better at it, although he had flattened at least a hundred trees. When the bird arrived, he saw the dragon clumsily start to fall to the ground below, but at the last second, awkwardly catch himself on a gust of rumoring wind. He flew a safe distance to the left Smaug, and called out, “Might I ask what you’re doing, Smaug?” The dragon started to say something, but he angled his right wing too high, and sharply swerved over in the Thrush’s direction. The bird had to tuck his wings in and dive down for a few feet to avoid being struck by Smaug’s massive form. When the dragon finally caught himself, he chided, “I’m trying to fly, but it’s just not working at all,” and took a sharp dip. “Could I help at all?” inquired the Thrush. “No, I’m fi-“
Another sharp dive from Smaug.
“As a matter of fact, I could use some advice.” The Thrush chuckled to himself, and thought, “I’m going to teach a dragon how to fly. How queer,” and he perched on Smaug’s horn, nearest to his ear. After a few hours of dipping, swerving, twirling, and nearly crashing, Smaug had learned how to fly. It was strange seeing Smaug fly, for he carried the talents of a bird’s flight. He would tuck his wings in and dive from time to time, and land with his back feet first, rather than a normal dragon, who would awkwardly land on all four feet, if he had four. Smaug also learned how to easily find air currents, so he could circle for hours without wasting any energy. There was a well-known and powerful air current right above Hobbiton.
The Unknown Escape
A sea of tall grass and wild flowers stood gently waving to the infinite sky that hovered above it. A trail was forming out of those who were being frantically pushed aside, made by a creature that was fleeing for her life, and has been for a long time now. Lady Galadriel had managed to flee her now-ruined kingdom. During all of the commotion, she had used a subterranean passageway in the weapon room that only she knew of, which led to the very edges of Rivendell. When she looked back on her flaming kingdom, she saw white-hot fire being formed from what it looked like, the mouth of a dragon. It had been at least three hours since she had started running, and now began to grow hungry, for she had no time to grab anything useful during her escape. Her mind has been screaming thoughts of what she had just witnessed, and dared her to go back to her demolished home, but she would not. Nothing in the world would make her turn around.
From above, a tiny bird had been exercising its own wings to keep up with his new companion, and was following the mysterious path. The creature, from what it looked like, was heading for the River Hoarwell. When it finally emerged from the grass and desperately kneeled down to consume the pure, mumbling water, the Thrush immediately knew who it was, forded over the river, and dove down. The Thrush landed elegantly next to the pallid creature and spoke a polite, “Hello,” but she did not answer. The little bird cleared his throat and once more spoke out a louder, “Hello there,” but maybe a little too loud. The elegant Elf had been greatly startled, as if never had she seen a bird before. The Thrush took a hop back, and cried, “Don’t run! I’m a friend.” It seemed the Elf understood the bird’s ancient speech, for she stopped trying to flee. After a few minutes of coaxing, the Thrush won Galadriel’s trust, but was still greatly confused as of why the Lady of the Lake was so far from her home and why she looked as if she had seen a ghost. He questioned Galadriel on everything he wanted to know. “Why have you left Rivendell?” the Thrush inquired. In the bird’s own ancient language, Galadriel described, “There is no more Rivendell. At least as I know.”
“What happened? Have I missed something?”
After a few swallows of water, Galadriel replied, “There was dragon-breath and destruction. We were foolish, to be unarmed,” and immediately returned to drinking the pure liquid. Behind them, the blazing blood-orange sun seemed to show even brighter, as if laughing at the thought of the mighty city of Rivendell being torn to pieces. The illumination of the sun had begun casting ominous shadows off of the valley surrounding the River Hoarwell.
The Thrush was utterly vexed. “What do you mean by dragon?” As soon as his tongue touched the roof of his beak to pronounce the last syllable in, “Dragon,” he immediately remembered what he had told Smaug. His lie came back to him like a towering wave in a raging sea. Glancing at some lichen to find their direction, he quickly succored Galadriel, “There is a small village a couple miles from here. Just keep following the watercourse south and you will find it,” and with that, the Thrush took off towards Smaug’s dwelling.
He beat his tiny wings as hard as he could, worried what Smaug had truly done. The increasing weight of his lies had not gotten to him yet. Once past the great eagle’s eyrie on the precipice, the Thrush finally came upon Rivendell, or what was left of it. As soon as his eyes locked on to the first ruined piece of the kingdom, he felt incredible guilt, so much that it weighed his body dangerously closer to the harshly burned ground below. He pried his eyes off of the disastrous scene below, forced himself to focus off of the lingering stench of carrion, and pushed his wings even harder, to rise higher and travel further away from what he had done. It was going to be a long and sorrowful journey for the flummoxed, little bird.
Greenwood the Great was truly as beautiful as you’ve heard with its lush, viridescent grass and beeches. It was full of plump deer to hunt and chase, and never-ending, twisting trails to wonder aimlessly on. Greenwood was the perfect place to do anything, it seemed, but there was only one part where the land grew infertile, and that place was named Dol Guldur. Dol Guldur was an enormous trench, so deep that the Elves had to build a parapet to keep others from falling to their death. It seemed the very foliage resisted to grow there, forming a great circular outline. Many of the wisest Wood-Elves never dared to put a single foot inside the circle, but few would. The local necromancer told there was to be great evil plunged into the crater someday. Some claimed to hear the wails of the ones that had accidentally fallen in, but survived.
The Elvenking’s Halls were absolutely stunning. Almost everything was an impossible shade of gold; except for the occasional tree branch reaching out to support the castle’s well-thought out structure. As if it wasn’t big enough, a great expansion of the Elvenking’s Halls was being made, for King Thranduil figured the more land he had protected, the less evil would come. Even with Smaug gone, the Elvenking would take no chances against orcs attempting to raid him again. He had found every circuitous way to his palace, and made sure it became impossible for any living threat to get through them.
“Sut nir’ neuma ie’ I’ ando, amin aran? (How many traps at the gate, my king?)”
“Lempe’ ar’ kai. (Fifty.)” As I said, he was taking no risks. The Elves had been celebrating Smaug’s going with their cronies every now and then, for most had to work on the safety of their dwelling. A hollow, thundering echo gradually became louder as the nightly hunting cavalcade rushed by the Elvenking and his architect, and left the gates.
“De I neuma ie’ anar lanta. Amin utinu sal’ n’e eller. (Lift the traps at sun fall. My son is still out there.)” King Thranduil harshly limits the time his son is out to hunt, and that time is running out.
Legolas, the Elvenking’s bold son, had lain almost completely motionless for at least three minutes now. He is a highly skilled hunter, and has been staring at a hart he had tracked, and had finally found the buck; or rather the buck found him. Legolas had waylaid for the hart to find the lure, and sure enough, the creature took it. From behind a yew, Legolas slowly drew back his arrow on the nocking point with his left hand, pulling the string taught against the slender, engraved limbs. Holding the grip of the bow tight with his right hand, and looking at his target with his piercing, grey-blue eyes, he let his fingers smoothly slide off of the carved arrow. The arrow curved, but then followed its directed path.
A dull sound from an arrow striking not its intended target, but a thick oak, and a frustrated sigh from the failed archer. Taking a drink from the flagon he carried, he tried to re-evaluate what he did to find what he did wrong. He had been getting better at hitting his desired target with his bow and arrow every day now, and he tried not to use his dagger, but it was always in a scabbard at his side. Yet to bring back remuneration, he looked deep into the trees of Greenwood, and spied what looked like a small wall. As he made his way over, hopping over the occasional log, Legolas saw that it was, in fact, a parapet. It was a good thing it was there, for the drop was staggering. Figuring out that this must be Dol Guldur, and like every other creature in the Greenwood forest, he wanted to get closer. He wanted to see how far down it really wen-
The echoed clap of a monstrous, white-hot bolt of lightning smote the middle of the enormous crater, rending the sky in two. In that split second, it threatened Legolas of its massive power, and blinded him, forcing the Elf to retreat from the edge. Seeing little dots of light in his eyesight, Legolas obstinately decided to turn tail and head for his home, for it was too dangerous out here in the open.
With the storm slowly increasing in size and sound, Legolas had reached the gates of the Elvenking’s Halls. Thranduil had really put a lot into the safety of his land. There were three extremely heavy portcullises that were lowered after Legolas had passed under each of them, and the nightly vanguard had already been taking their positions for the long hours that awaited them. It seemed to Thranduil the only truly venerable creatures in his land, was himself, and his son. Legolas enjoyed walking up the twisting road in the village, rather than the direct one to the actual castle. Passing a group of Elves loosening the moisturized soil with mattocks, the smell of toothsome mutton being cooked begging them in, and the sound of the local necromancer’s incantations, Legolas felt calmly at home. He always found a group of children playing quoits, and he always joined them, but the storm had forced them to go inside. A cartage carrying goods from the outer lands slowly groaned by him, pulled by a strong Clydesdale that whinnied while passing. The rhythmic clanging from a blacksmith hammering a hauberk into shape echoed throughout the village. He continued on his way to find his own shelter.
Yet another blinding vein of lightning briefly tore through the darkened and overcast sky, illuminating the inside of the mighty Smaug’s lair. The dragon had been resting until the storm had awakened him with its continuous bellowing. He had been deeply wondering why there was no gold in sight in Rivendell, well, except for some golden scimitars and sculptures. He had no idea know how many days it had been since the destruction, but he had strangely enjoyed it. Smaug lie on the edge of his cave, awaiting the next flaming arrow of energy to pierce the sky. He had gone over what the Thrush had informed him at least a hundred times now, and he still had the strangest feeling that it wasn’t the full truth. As he gazed into the darkened land of Middle-Earth, he noticed a rather large clearing in the middle of Greenwood.
“No wonder they call it Greenwood,” Smaug noted to himself. “The entire forest seems to softly glow green, even in darkened weather like this.” Smaug was right. With the right light and the perfect amount of rain, it did indeed look like Greenwood was glowing in the brutal, storming night.
Mesmerized by the faded glowing of the forest, Smaug leaped off of the edge of his cave and dove. He spread his enormous wings, and they caught the energized winds of the newly-forming storm, and he glided gracefully. The rain rolled off of the dragon’s slender nose, and down to the ground below. He breathed in the power of the storm; he took in the colours of the crying, heavy, clouds, the smell of freshly-falling rain. Angling his flaming wings downwards, he softly fell towards the ground, but caught himself just above the edge of Greenwood forest, and began to circle it. He felt every drop of water hit his smooth scales, and with every drop that touched the beast, the more his rage grew. With every flash of brilliant lightning, the more he wanted his treasure back. With every roll of deafening thunder, he wanted to burn every creature that resided in Hobbiton. His anger grew higher than ever before. The evil the dragon was building up was poisoning the very forest of Greenwood.
The viridescent trees on the edge of Greenwood had begun to fade into a lifeless brown. The creatures of the forest scrambled to run away from the oncoming darkness, but it would catch up to them, and turn them into vicious beasts that would attack anything that moved or breathed. The worst of it was the spiders. As soon as the quickly spreading evil reached a spider, it would make it grow. They grew to a massive size, and were extremely dangerous. They filled the dying Greenwood forest with webs strong enough to catch and hold things up to the size of a man. The evil eagerly reached to touch the Elvenking’s Hall, and the village around it, but it strangely went around it, and affected nothing. It seemed the Elves were too good-natured to have a darkness such as that pierce their hearts, yet the evil spread on. Smaug had circled halfway around Greenwood when his angry thoughts pulled him into an immense hatred towards the stealing of his gold. Smaug was heading to Hobbiton.
Struggling with tired, drenched wings in the remorseless storm, the Thrush could see the opening to Smaug’s cave. It felt like buckets of freezing water was being poured onto his shivering body. To save at least some energy, he tucked in his wings and dove towards his cave. He had to close his eyes to shield them from the almost-sideways rain. Unhinging his wings and turning them outwards, the Thrush came to an abrupt stop facing the cave. A flare of lightning lit up the interior of the cave to show the bird that no one was home. He struggled to stay vertical against the powerful winds of the storm.
“Where could he b-“
A sudden bright light besieged the Thrush, and a bolt of lightning immediately flew around the bird and struck the cave, collapsing it completely, and sending a few boulders rolling down the side of the mountain. Following the blinding fork of lightning, a deafening roar of thunder vibrated the Thrush’s body, leaving the bird to hear nothing but a high ringing in his ears. He dare not move, frightened that he was surely hit, but his palpitating heart reminded him that he was still alive. When sound slowly returned to the shaking bird, he was surprised that the roll of thunder had not stolen his hearing. Only the edges of his wings were burnt, but other than that he was fine. He then heard another roar. Not of thunder’s voice, but of a dragon’s. He quickly turned around to find Smaug’s tail disappear over the tops of the Misty Mountains, and he quickly realized that Smaug was heading to Hobbiton.
A million thoughts were rushing through the small bird’s head, and he was still furiously trying to figure out if he was struck by the bolt of lightning, but he focused on what he was supposed to be doing. He decided to follow his stronger instinct, and pushed himself harder to catch up with the raging dragon.
From Green to Myrke
The evil had spread throughout all of Greenwood the Great, all except for Thranduil’s Hall, and the border the Elvenking had set up around his kingdom. Thranduil had long since felt an evil spreading, and knew he could do nothing about it. He sent seven guards on horseback to find out what had happened. No one had seen Smaug circling around the edges of Greenwood, for they are buried too deep within the forest. Thranduil had heard what sounded like a dragon yelling in its rage, but he supposed it was only thunder. Glancing up at the huge arches that bent over the immense room, he saw the reflection of the main doors open harshly. Coming through the doors, were six of his best Elves, and five horses. He sat up in his throne, greatly confused why one of his best Elves had disappeared.
“Mani auta raika? (What went wrong?)”
“Amin aran, I’ liante ier alta, (My king, the spiders are bigger,)” replied one. They looked like they had seen a ghost. They were pale, and two were shaking, but the colour was slowly returning to their faces. Thranduil raised one eyebrow, and cautiously asked, “Sut alta? (How big?)”
“Sai’ alta. Sha vee’ alta vee’ amin! (Much bigger. Almost as big as me!)” One frantically informed the Elvenking. The one without a horse took a step towards Thranduil, who was looking greatly confused.
“Ron line ier sai tiuka, ar’ er en lye quessir… eithel I’ liante… (Their webs are very thick, and one of our elves…well the spider…)” He could not finish the sentence. There was a silence from the Elvenking thinking hard about what happened. In his thought, he asked yet another question. “Mani eile ier n’ataya?” (What else is different?)”
One immediately replied, “I’ orn ier il I’ ataya. (The trees are not the same.)” The others agreed. This caught Thranduil’s attention, and he guided his eyes to the one that had just spoken. “E’ mani men? (In what way?)” The same spoke again.
“Ron ier il calen nan’ baru, ar’ ier il ba. (They are not green, but brown, and are not dead)” Thranduil was completely discombobulated. He studied the Elf who informed him of this strangeness. He looked over to the tree branch that twisted next to his throne, and saw the leaves to be green. “I’ lasse no’ sa olwa ier il baru. (The leaves on this brach are not brown.)”
“Eithel, I’ mori il auta wanwie I’ ando, (Well the darkness did not go past the gates,)” the same Elf replied, and he was right. The evil would not go past the border of Thranduil’s Hall. After more thinking, the Elvenking asked, “Ikotane, lye ier varna? (So, we are safe?) The guards glanced at each other. One finally replied with, “N’at san’ I’ liante, ume. (Other than the spiders, yes.)” Thranduil sat back in his throne to think some more. “Lle aa’ auta, (You may go,)” he said, and the Elves went to house their horses. This was another thing for the Elvenking to worry about. Thranduil muttered, “Ta en ve’ lye a’mael calen taur…sii’ mori taur. (It looks like our beloved Greenwood…is now Mirkwood.)” A shiver went down the Elvenking’s spine. Out of all of the creatures in Mirkwood to suddenly become extremely dangerous, it had to be the spiders.
The storm had slowly begun to stop when the Bard brought out the giant, candle-topped muffin. “A muffin? Well at least it’s not a fish,” the satisfied Sigrid thought to herself. It was her birthday tomorrow, but she insisted to have something the day before, just to not have fish for the thousandth day in a row. Her siblings were also very, very happy that they did not have to have fish that night. The Bard thought of, “Accidentally,” dropping the muffin, just to have the plate of cod he arranged for that night, but didn’t want to make Sigrid unhappy. After all, tomorrow was her birthday, and he had gotten her the best present he could have gotten. It was a tradition in their home to get one present for whoever it was that had the birthday. Bain came rushing in through the door, and practically smashed his present onto the table. It was wrapped in the shape of a small fishing spear.
“I wonder what it must be,” Sigrid thought while rolling her eyes. She loved seeing how her family would wrap the presents every year, and they weren’t getting much better. Tilda flew down the ladder, carrying her small present like a trophy, and a piece of paper, and she, put hers in front of Sigrid on the table. Last year she had given Sigrid a doll made of sticks and ribbon, and she is sure that her sister will love what she had gotten her this year.
After the muffin was completely devoured by the three ravenous children, it was time for presents. The children’s father went out into the other room, and a few seconds later, came back with a round package. Sigrid first opened Bain’s, and of course, it was a small fishing spear.
“It’s so you can fish on your free time!” Bain enthusiastically explained. He whispered, “Remember father said you had to stay here? Now you can hunt like me!” Bain was always trying to help out his sisters. “Thank you, brother,” Sigrid replied. She was actually quite satisfied with his gift to her. Next was Tilda’s. After the well-wrapped bundle was successfully unwrapped, it turned out to be a rock. “Turn it over! Turn it over!” Tilda squealed. On the front was a face, drawn in charcoal. Tilda was always very creative when it got to presents for others. Sigrid looked confusingly at her sister. “It’s to keep you company when you clean, duh!” Tilda replied. She also seemed to be the only one to understand the presents she gave.
“Say hello!” Tilda insisted. “Umm…” Sigrid was growing too old for this. “Go on! Pleeeaaassee?” Tilda was an expert at whining.
“Fine, fine.” Sigrid looked down at the smiling piece of stone. “Hello…?” Sigrid then looked at her sister, who replied, “He said hello back!”
“He?” Sigrid asked, raising both of her eyebrows. “Yes, he!” Tilda rolled her eyes. “His name is Boulder!”
“I wonder how you conjured up that name, Tilda,” she sarcastically said. “I know!” her proud sister responded.
Now it was her father’s turn. The round package was placed in front of Sigrid, and she eagerly opened it. It was a new cooking pot. Actually useful, for once. After a long night of talking and singing, the family finally went to bed, except for Sigrid, who had to clean up the table. The storm only got worse, it seemed. It appeared that it was going to be bad weather on Sigrid’s birthday. “Oh well,” she thought, and she walked over to the window to study the storm, and to talk to her new pet-rock.
The storm was enormous. It stretched across the Misty Mountains, past what is now Tal en I’ Sgiathatch Umbar, and is expanding to Hobbiton. It seemed wherever Smaug went, the storm followed. The Thrush could no longer see Smaug through the harsh rain. He could no longer take the wind pushing him back every three flaps of his exhausted wings. He had to land somewhere, so he picked out a tree, and headed towards it. Glancing around as he was quickly descending, the Thrush realized he was going to land in the more dangerous area of the Trollshaws, Ost Durgonn. The Ruins of the Trollshaws were filled with hungry creatures rumored to be undead. Not wanting to be somebody’s late night snack, the Thrush made his way towards one of the taller trees. Almost about to touch the highest branch of a pine, the Thrush extended his feet like a hawk, ready to grab the branch in order to land, but what looked like a white badger thrust himself out of the tree, and into the bird. If it wasn’t for a gust of wind that pushed the bird to the side, he would have been dinner for the ghastly badger.
Not wanting to risk his life again, he figured being on the ground would be, at least, a little safer. He fluttered to the ground, all the while checking for any other predators. There wasn’t any rain down there, for the trees were too thick. The Thrush then started to look for a tiny space of shelter that he could reside in for the night. It really was strange in that wood. He would see flashes of white, like lightning, darting behind trees in the corners of his eyes, and would turn, but find nothing there. Every now and then, he would hear a screech owl’s terrifying scream, or an unseen, continuous growling clicking noise up in a tree. Once or twice, he swore he saw a cat prowling in the bushes ahead, as quiet as a mouse. Seeing a bush ruffling in front of him caught the Thrush’s attention. Looking close enough showed the Thrush that the bush had two yellow eyes, that appeared to glow in the darkness. The Thrush wasn’t quite sure if it was real or not, because the forest had been playing awful tricks on his already confused mind, so he crept towards the bush. The only sounds were the rain pelting the tree’s many leaves up above, and the Thrush’s ragged breathing down below. Three feet away from the mysterious eyes, the Thrush suddenly heard something running in the brush behind him, so he quickly turned to catch the culprit. Slowly turning back around, he abruptly met the yellow eyes, like two suns, and the white, furry, smiling creature that belonged to them.
“Hello there, little bird!”
The Thrush fainted from fright.
When the Thrush came to, he found himself inside of a dry, dirt cave full of dangling, entangled roots. He tried to remember what happened, but all he could remember was white. Glancing to the side, he could see that he was surrounded by sharp knives and cooking pots threatening to bake the Thrush into a culinary delight. Trying to remain calm, the Thrush thought hard about what he ought to do. Should he flap his wings and make a clamour, attracting much attention, or slowly try to sneak out unseen? Before he could make a decision, a large, white, furry creature came walking in through the floor on all four of its legs.
“I am surely going to perish tonight, and Hobbiton will be gone and it will be all my fault,” the Thrush thought. He shut his eyes tight so he did not need to see what was going to happen to him.
“You alive, mate?”
A rough voice had suddenly appeared before the trembling Thrush. “A-Are you g-going to hurt m-me?” the bird stuttered. He opened his eye the slightest bit, and saw a white, scruffy coat with a single black line running along the creature’s back. It looked to be a badger, but it was a deathly pale. The badger creature laughed, “Of course not! I’m just here to give you a place to stay for the night, alright?” The badger did not look threatening to the Thrush, but he still trembled. The badger introduced himself. “My name is Melogale.”
A voice withered and shaking from age, came echoing down the tunnel. “Melogale? Melogale have you brought us dinner yet?”
The Thrush immediately assumed, “Dinner,” was him. So he fluttered his wings as fast as he could and pushed by Melogale. He flew out of the small cavern and into a darkened dirt hallway. The only light he saw was from the other end of the wet tunnel, so he slowly crept to it. He could not hear Melogale anymore, even though the cavern in which he escaped from was only a few feet away. Hecould only hear the rain on the ground above, but other than that, it was completely silent. How the Thrush hated badgers. He heard a sudden movement from his left side, like a scuttle of claws, and turned to investigate. Finding nothing he turned back, and again, he was face to face with Melogale’s glowing, yellow eyes. This time, the Thrush did not pass out from terror.
“Where are you going, mate?” the rough voice asked. “Oh, just…Looking around, that’s all,” replied the bird. “Well, you might want to come join us for dinner. My mum has got a talent for cooking, despite how old she is.”
“I heard that, Melogale,” the same withered voice yelled.
“Did I mention she has wonderful hearing, too?” The Thrush laughed nervously. He still did not trust the badgers. Melogale began to escort him to where the light was, and where the badger’s mother was. Just like the room the Thrush was in before, this one was also filled with cooking utensils of every kind, made to fit the badgers’ paws.
“Umm, Melogale? Were you the thing that nearly pounced on me…in that tree?” the Thrush asked, making sure the badger really wasn’t lethal. “Badgers don’t climb trees that high! Almost every badger in this region is white-furred, so it couldn’t have been me,” Melogale responded, and looked away to cover his watering mouth. Badgers do love the taste of thrush.
The Thrush come to look upon what looked like a regular-coloured badger, but was faded and covered in wrinkles. The badger was washing the miniaturized dishes. “That’s Mephitidae. She is my mother,” Melogale whispered to the Thrush. Mephitidae turned around to study the Thrush, as she was drying off a knife. She sounded nicer than before. “Oh hello, thrush. Will you be staying for dinner?”
“U-um I really must go-“
“Of COURSE he will be staying mother!” interrupted Melogale. “He just needs a place to rest for the night, that’s all!” Mephitidae looked the Thrush up and down, and muttered what sounded like, “He’s a bit thin for dinner,” and turned back around. The Thrush opened his beak to protest, but Melogale whipped him away towards the room they had just been in.
“You look so tired, Thrush. Here, I will let you use my bed,”and he guided the Thrush onto the same table, only it had a soft, rabbit-fur blanket that was wrapped tightly around him.
“Thank you Melogale, but I really must-“
“NO no no it’s fine! You stay here and rest, and mother and I will make you into a nice pie!” Melogale walked quickly out of the room. The Thrush could have sworn that Melogale said that he will MAKE him into pie, but then again, he was tired. Trying to shut out the visions of sharp cooking utensils surrounding him, the Thrush closed his eyes, and drifted asleep.
A dream floated like a cloud into the bird’s mind, and in it was the two badgers. They were dancing around an open fire, with shadows belonging to nothing dancing on the walls, chanting a very strange song. It went something like this.
No dinner we’ve had in days or weeks
The Thrush will do just fine
Finally some feathers to fill our cheeks
Oh! Tonight we shall dine!
Too many days it’s been
Since we’ve tasted meat and skin
One’s we’ve hunted now have fled
All should fear the living dead!
This went on for quite a while now, and the Thrush was utterly disgusted. Before he could wake up, he heard a voice whisper his name, and he looked to the side. There was nothing, only a voice. The voice spoke, “Wake up and fly away. The song they speak is true.”
The Thrush did wake up, and he then heard the song, not only in the dream, but in real life, too. He frantically looked around for a way out, and there was a blocked entrance directly above him. He almost cheered in joy, but that would alarm the two badgers. He then heard Melogale all the way down the tunnel say, “I am going to prepare the Thrush for the soup, mother,” The Thrush started quietly setting boxes of things to the side, clearing the entrance opening, but not fast enough. When he saw Melogale’s shadow on the tunnel wall, he simply started pushing the boxes aside.
The Thrush turned around very, very quick and once again met the glowing, yellow eyes of Melogale. The bird shrieked and flew up the rest of the opening, knocking boxes on top of Melogale, but that only made the undead badger madder. Melogale scrambled on top of a box, and sprang on his feet. There was a sudden, sharp pain in the thrush’s tail, and he looked back to see that Melogale had torn three tail feathers out of his delicate body. The badger wasn’t pleased with what he had gotten, and once again sprang up. The Thrush could feel a slight breeze from the opening. He clamped his beak on a sturdy weed and yanked himself up. He scrambled to his feet, hopped into the air, and flapped his wings furiously. He lifted himself into the air just as Melogale’s foaming mouth had appeared at the den’s opening. The Thrush laughed and stuck his tongue out at the badger. He wasn’t ever going back.
Melogale slunk back to his mother, and informed her of him losing their dinner.
“I brought back three tail feathers!”
“I’m as mad as a cut snake. There is now no bird, and that was our dinner for at least a year!” and Mephitidae started to whack Melogale with the metal ladle she held in her paw.
Back in the air, the Thrush had been flying fine. Even though he lost three tail feathers, he had more, and they formed an air-tight seal to help him navigate in the air. The Thrush had been slightly rested, so he was good enough to keep going. He had followed dragon roars in the distance, and now he came upon the pitch-black dragon riding perfectly on an air current. Right above Hobbiton.
The Truth Will Set You Free…Unless You’re a Dragon
Smaug had been circling for quite some time, purposely trying to draw attention. The confused Hobbits came out of their comfortable Hobbit-holes, but immediately returned back inside once they saw the flaming wings in the stillness of the night. The storm had finally reached the peaceful Shire, and the rumbling of thunder and flashing of lightning was headed towards Hobbiton. Feeling the storm match his power, Smaug was getting ready for the right time to strike upon the peaceful village.
The Thrush was hovering by, trying fast to figure out what to do. He would fly this way and that, hoping an idea came to him. The only place that entered his mind was Dol Guldur, but that was just a gigantic, never-ending hole in the groun-
That was it!
The Thrush had to lure Smaug away from Hobbiton, but how? The Thrush could see Smaug pulling his circle tighter, just like he taught him. He saw Smaug’s fire-lined belly begin to glow brighter, getting ready to produce white-hot fire. Not thinking at all, the Thrush dove into the dragon’s path, all the while screaming, “Smaug! Smaug!” but the oncoming thunder and pouring rain had drowned his little voice out.
The Thrush was drenched all the way to his soft down, but he still continued to flap his wings. Smaug had begun to stop his circling, and was aiming for the very middle of Hobbiton. Everything seemed to slow down for the Thrush. He could see the patterns the rain was making, the way the rain spiraled down. He saw the slight reflection in the raindrops around him, and saw the lightning split the air, and thunder acknowledge its companion. He could have touched his wing alongside the pure-black dragon’s side. He felt the burning of Smaug’s rage towards the innocent village of Hobbiton. Then he looked to his side, and once again heard his unknown friend he briefly met in his dream of Melogale and Mephitidae. He looked at the invisible being, and trembling from the cold, asked, “What am I to do? I feel chained to the unforgiving ground.” The mysterious being answered with, “The truth will set you free.”
When that split second had ended, the Thrush found himself hovering in front of the massive creature’s head, which had stopped Smaug in his path. The dragon’s voice towered over the mighty thunder itself.
“Thrush? Thrush what are you doing here?”
The Thrush was pushed back with every push of Smaug’s wings. He was extremely scared, for it was a terrible storm, thunder was deafening him and lightning was blinding him, and he was in front of the most powerful dragon in all of Middle-Earth. He was suddenly overtaken by a strong feeling of courage.
The courage that the bird contained made his voice as loud as thunder itself. Smaug growled, “What? What do you mean?” and glared at the Thrush from his suspicious, fiery eyes. Smaug was snorting clouds of air unto the Thrush, for the air up in the clouds was freezing, even with Smaug’s burning rage.
“I lied to you, Smaug.” It seemed another voice was speaking with the Thrush. A powerful voice. “I lied about you hating Rivendell and Hobbiton.” The Thrush could see Smaug starting to shake with anger.
“Then what is the TRUTH, bird?” Smaug’s complete attention was on the Thrush. Thinking fast, the Thrush yelled, “You’ll have to catch me first!” and the courage was suddenly gone. The Thrush saw Smaug open his jaws to snap him in half, but he wheeled away, just in time. He took off for Dol Guldur.
It would be impossible for the Thrush to fly all the way over the Misty Mountains, and into the now Mirkwood forest. That same force, but stronger, filled the Thrush. He suddenly gained great speed, and only knew to rush towards Dol Guldur. As he turned, through the rain he could see Smaug slowly coming closer, but the Thrush sped up. He was as fast as lightning himself, the little bird. The Thrush strained his once aching wings against the powerful wind, but felt no pain. He did a flip in the air, simply feeling wonderful. Once he regained his direction, he laughed and glanced at the dragon.
Smaug snapped his dagger-like fangs at the Thrush, but again missed.
“Alright, no more fooling around,” thought the Thrush, and once again sped up. HE could feel Smaug getting tired, but only a little. With the lightning lighting the Thrush’s way, he could see he was right upon the Misty Mountains. “Now for the fun part,” the Thrush thought, and did a twirling dive into the crevices between the mighty mountains. Twisting and turning at impossible speeds, the Thrush was having an easy time. However, wherever the bird went, Smaug followed, smashing into the sides of the mountains and diving into the bottoms of valleys.
Smaug saw that the Thrush was headed straight towards a mountain. Seeing no way for the bird to get out of the way, he sped up. Opening his mouth, Smaug could almost taste the Thrush’s tail feathers. He opened his jaws a little wider, just to make sure he catches the Thrush, but suddenly the bird shot up towards the top of the mountain. As Smaug followed the Thrush with his eyes, his body smashed into the mountain that he was headed full speed for.
The Thrush, hearing an extremely loud avalanche, was already on the other side of the mountain, so he stopped to listen to where Smaug had gone. Hearing and seeing nothing, he started back towards Hobbiton.
Noticing a rather large crack forming in the mountain, the Thrush flew over to it. He only took a few flaps when Smaug came BARRELING out of the side of the mountain. The dragon had smashed through the entire middle of the mountain. Letting out a shriek, the Thrush turned and dived towards Mirkwood. Smaug dove as well. The rain seemed to be guiding the Thrush towards the endless crater. Smaug was catching up easily. Nearing the crater impossibly fast, the Thrush had to pull the same trick on the dragon, but had to do it better. The Thrush hoped it was really and endless pit, put all of his faith in the strange force that compelled him, and felt darkness surround him. He immediately pulled up and spun around so he could see his work being done.
Smaug dove directly into Dol Guldur, just as the Thrush planned. Just as the Thrush did not plan, the avalanche that Smaug had formed while smashing through the middle of the mountain had set off a huge avalanche of boulders which came tumbling towards Dol Guldur, burying the trees of Mirkwood in its path, and hopefully some spiders. Smaug was aware what was happening and tried to rise back to the surface, but was covered in a wave of falling boulders. One particular one seemed to aim directly for Smaug’s head, and it knocked him out cold. The entire top of the mountain had come down, and the avalanche seemed strangely guided to Dol Guldur. The Rocks started stacking themselves on top of each other, seeming to form a towering mountain. The Thrush hovered in disbelief as the boulders seemed to turn an earthy brown to match the crater itself. The Thrush, not knowing if Smaug was dead or not, waited.
An hour passed by, and the Thrush heard a satisfying roar from the inside of the mountain. The strange voice in his head told him that Smaug would not be getting out anytime soon. With one final look at the mountain, the Thrush whispered,
“I’m sorry, my friend.”
And left Dol Guldur to glide to Lake-Town to tell the Bard if the satisfying news.
The Beginning Starts
It had been exactly one year since The Thrush’s epic tale had reached far across Middle-Earth. Occasionally, fire would burst out of Dol Guldur’s top, as if Smaug was breathing his deadly fire, trying to get out of his immortal prison, but it never reached the Elvenking’s Halls. Rivendell is slowly being reconstructed, rumor tells. Thorin claimed his throne in the Lonely Mountain, and Dale was being rebuilt. Trade was become more and more lively between the Elves, Men, and Dwarfs. It seemed things were being slowly put back together. The Thrush, having just finished his yearly visit with the buried dragon, was flying over to Hobbiton, to make sure that, too, was alright.
Soaring over the Shire’s green fields and farmed valleys, the Thrush reached Hobbiton. Observing the small village, he saw that his old friend Bilbo Baggins had been getting ready for a party. “How nice,” the Thrush thought.
Following a path leading out of Hobbiton, he saw a cart being steered by someone wearing a pointed gray hat and a gray cloak, with a bright white beard. Someone else jumped into the cart as well, and that someone was Frodo Baggins.
I THOUGHT I HAD A FAVOURITE INFOMERCIAL GIF
BUT I THINK I HAVE FOUND A NEW FAVOURITE
but what about
"Damn, you so hot you should be put in the fridge"
-I say to my way-too-hot mac & cheese
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