Another year had passed. That made it two years and seven months since I'd first arrived in this world.
Time moved quickly — too quickly — especially when nothing really happened. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but… well, boredom has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. Still, I liked boring. It meant quiet evenings, a pipe between my teeth, and a sky full of stars. It meant days without rushing into some half-forgotten ruin to fight things that shouldn't exist. And, most importantly, it meant free time to build, experiment, and tinker.
Since gaining my latest page, I'd pushed further into large-scale metalworking — proper foundry work, not just the occasional blade or trinket. With the extra capacity, I'd begun making golems. Not just the plant constructs I'd experimented with before, but proper hybrids: wood and bronze, iron and vine. Even a few pure clockwork models, fine-tuned for specific tasks. They were tireless, precise, and obeyed my intent without question.
I leaned back into my chair — custom-built, stuffed, and angled to be as comfortable as humanly possible — and drew in a long pull from my pipe. Tonight's smoke was from a new strain I'd cultivated, alchemically tailored to strengthen the body at a fundamental level. It worked quietly, subtly, knitting together improvements in muscle, bone, and nerve. My preferred method of enhancement, mostly because I could enjoy it while staring up at the constellations. And with my pipe, I could quadruple the potency in each breath.
The smoke drifted upward, curling silver before the wind slowly unravelled it into the dark.
Across from me, Bilbo mirrored the motion, exhaling a warm cloud of his own — though he stuck to his personal blend. Not my enhancement leaf, but a gentler pipeweed that soothed the body, fortified the soul, and kept the mind sharp. In its own way, it was an enhancer, but Bilbo liked his quiet comforts, and I didn't press him.
He sat in his own chair another of my custom pieces looking healthier than when we'd first met. Stronger, too. He hadn't noticed, but I'd wager he now matched the physical strength of a grown Man. Impressive for a hobbit. Not that it was a mystery — he drank my Sun Tea daily, sometimes four times a day. The only source of Sun Elixir in the world, and he liked it enough not to question what it was doing to him.
As for me… I wondered, not for the first time, how far my own body had come. Years of enhancements brews, elixirs, pipeweed but no real need to push myself to the limit. If I had to guess, I was now at the level I'd been when I pushed my Qi to its peak back in the Barrow-downs. A natural state matching my old, fully-enhanced self.
Oh and I'd found my limit. My Qi, or magic, there was a cap. I'd hit it a few months ago, when the alchemical devices scattered through Bag End and the garden began drawing in massive amounts of energy. That pool was still growing slowly, steadily from age and from my daily enhancers, but it would be a long while before that pool expanded in size. Unless I decided on trying some more risky enhancements, of which I had no need for.
Still, it wasn't long before Gandalf would come by. That thought kept returning to me, and with it came a question I hadn't yet answered what exactly was I going to do?
Power wasn't the problem. At this point, I had enough destructive force to match a fire-breathing dragon, and that wasn't exaggeration. With my Lore of Fire, I could sweep an orc army from the field by myself, especially if I wove the wind into it… or sang in Aqshy. That wasn't really a language, not in the conventional sense, but it carried power. I'd have to practice it more; something told me the right song could burn down mountains.
But plans… plans were harder.
I'd follow Bilbo, of course — if anything went differently, I could make sure he survived it. The trouble was if I had to choose between saving Bilbo or Gandalf. Gandalf was key to Sauron's defeat. Bilbo… Bilbo was my friend. The amulet I'd given him kept him well-protected, and his knack for staying out of danger was uncanny. That was assuming the story didn't change. But with me along? The odds would shift. I could tear through orcs, and that was a service worth offering Middle-earth.
Gold wouldn't hurt either. My fortune right now was mostly silver pennies a lot of them, yes, but still silver. And gold had a way of smoothing the wheels of any plan.
The real problem was Smaug.
Lore of Fire against a fire-breathing dragon was… questionable. That left Starfang, and Starfang was another matter entirely. My sword's weight wasn't just in steel it was comparable to my alchemy, transmutation, and the knowledge of immortality itself, at least based on the book. But I hadn't brought him into the world yet. He sat quietly within my soul, and taking him out without cause felt… wrong. He deserved more than that.
He. Yes, he. My brother. Strange, feeling so bound to a blade, but there it was a presence at my side, always steady.
Then there was the question of the long game. Following Gandalf was the most sensible path. Or… perhaps I could act more boldly. Wizards were the servants of Eru, or at least the Valar — was I not, in my own way, the same? What if I played that part? Forced the White Council's hand, pushed them to confront Dol Guldur before Sauron's shadow stretched too far. That could change everything. The orcs might fracture, tearing each other apart. Then all we'd have to worry about was Thorin's inevitable dragon-sickness and the likely clash between Dwarves and Elves. If I gave Thranduil his precious necklace ahead of time, that battle might not even happen.
Which brought me right back to Smaug.
What could I do to prepare? Arrows tipped to pierce scales, carrying poisons that would eat him from the inside? Alchemical acids, perhaps. Bows designed to guide shots into his eyes, blinding him. This world moved on stories, and Smaug was a legend but he had weak points. Bard's black arrow had found his. If I could replicate it, improve it… perhaps I could do the job myself.
And if not? Then I'd need another answer items that could drink in fire, maybe freeze him enough for someone to shoot him in his weak spot. Something.
Across from me, Bilbo rose from his chair, stifling a yawn. He gave me a nod before heading inside for the night. I stayed where I was, pipe in hand, watching the smoke curl upward and thinking about dragons. I'd follow him in soon enough.
I'd have to decide on something soon. The main flaw in my grand idea was simple — how in the world would I convince the White Council that I was a true Maia?
The thought lingered as I leaned back, pipe in hand, staring up into the deep, cold scatter of stars. If I was going to play that role, perhaps I should go straight to the source. Ask the Big Man himself. Eru. Ilúvatar. The one who set this whole stage.
But how?
An altar, perhaps. Something powerful enough to carry my intent across the veil. A beacon of fire and will bright enough it couldn't be ignored. If I poured enough strength into it maybe some fragment of his attention would brush across me.
And then… well. Whatever happened after that would be out of my hands.
Still, it was worth a try.
---
Beyond the circles of the world, in the Timeless Halls, there was no night nor day, no passing of hours. Yet in the vast harmony of the Music, a note trembled — small, bright, insistent.
Eru Ilúvatar perceived it at once.
It was not the work of one of the Ainur he had called before the shaping of Arda. It was no song born in the first themes, nor was it the whisper of a spirit long known to him. This was different — a mortal's will, sharpened and honed until it shone like a star.
The message was clear, though unspoken: Notice me. Hear me. Grant me the mantle of what I am not, so that I may act.
Ilúvatar regarded it without haste, for he was not bound by time as his Children were. He saw the one who had sent it not only as he was in that moment, but in all the moments he had been, and all the threads of what he might yet become.
He could answer. He could make the claim true with a thought, send his voice down into the fields and hills of Middle-earth, set the free peoples' course upon a surer road.
But that was not his way.
The First Theme had been marred by Melkor, and yet out of the discord had come beauty unforeseen. The Second and the Third had risen from the choices of the Children themselves. It was in the crooked road, the unexpected turning, that the Song deepened.
This Thomas, was yet part of that same Music — not written into it at the beginning, but here now, shaping and being shaped. He was a thread, and his weaving was his own to choose.
And so Eru only let his gaze pass gently over the mortal's fire-born signal, letting a breath of Music brush against it enough for the sender to know something had heard. No words. No instructions. No mantle of divine authority.
For even in the face of darkness, the choice must be the Children's own.
----
The moon was high when I finished laying out the last of the components.I'd chosen the old clearing at the edge of my garden the one I kept clear of crops, herbs, and experiments. The grass here always grew a little softer, the wind bent around it in odd patterns, and the stones underfoot were the kind you didn't move without a chisel.
Around me, the devices hummed and glowed in quiet harmony:
A ring of copper rods etched with runes in Aqshy.
My wind tower, its vanes turning without a breeze, pulling the air's energy into a spiralling column,
A shallow basin of quicksilver, reflecting the moon like a portal to another sky,
And at the centre, a lantern wrought from living brass, its flame not consuming but expanding, each flicker flaring brighter as I fed it my energy.
I had braided the signal together from fire, wind, and intent — as pure and sharp as I could make it. My will was the message: I am here. I can act. Let me carry your banner.
The flame flared once, white at its heart.Then the night went very, very still.
No booming voice. No sudden rush of power. Just a sharp feeling, like the faintest pressure on the edge of my mind. As if something vast and boundless had turned its gaze toward me for a single, eternal moment.
It wasn't approval, and it wasn't dismissal. It was… awareness.
And then it was gone, leaving only the quiet clearing, the whisper of my devices cooling in the night air, and the lingering truth that whichever god I had reached had seen my request and did not agree with it.
I exhaled slowly, smoke from my pipe curling up into the moonlight."Well," I muttered, "guess that's a no."