The dwarves make room at Bilbo's overcrowded dining table, their movements choreographed with the efficiency of those who have shared countless meals in confined spaces. Thorin takes his place at the head of the table, authority emanating from him like heat from a forge. Gandalf stands nearby, too tall for the hobbit-sized ceiling, observing the assembly with the satisfied air of a puppeteer whose strings are all pulling in the right directions. Zac finds a place in a corner, witnessing this legendary encounter with the strange double vision of one who both lives a moment and recognizes its significance in a story not yet written.
Bilbo wanders through his own home like a ghost, unable to comprehend how his quiet evening has transformed into this chaotic gathering. He casts a despairing look toward his pantry, now as empty as a pillaged cave, then toward his table groaning under the weight of displaced dishes and cutlery.
A plate of food is placed before Thorin, who begins to eat with measured dignity. The other dwarves watch him with silent respect, like courtiers in the presence of their king. For the first time since their tumultuous arrival, a relative calm settles over Bag End.
"What news from the meetings in the Ered Luin?" asks Balin, his white beard framing a face marked by age and wisdom. "Did they all come?"
"Yes," Thorin replies between bites. "Envoys from the seven kingdoms."
A murmur of approval runs through the assembly. Dwalin, his massive body seeming too large for the delicate chair he sits on, leans forward.
"And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?" His voice is a deep rumble, like stones rolling at the bottom of a cave. "Is Dain with us?"
Thorin hesitates, then sets down his fork. "They will not come." His admission provokes a collective sigh of disappointment. "They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."
Zac observes the scene, absorbing every detail. These words, he knows them, has heard them spoken by other voices in another life. Yet, lived rather than simply read or seen, the scene takes on a new dimension, more complex, more nuanced. The disappointment that darkens the dwarves' faces is not that of actors, but the authentic expression of a people exiled too long.
Bilbo, who has approached with the curiosity inherent to hobbits, frowns. "You're undertaking a quest?"
"Bilbo, my dear fellow," Gandalf interjects, "bring us a little more light, would you?"
The hobbit complies, returning with an additional candle which he places near the wizard. Gandalf then draws from his robes a folded parchment which he spreads upon the table, revealing an ancient map. The paper is yellowed with age, its frayed edges bearing witness to numerous handlings.
"Far to the East," Gandalf begins, his finger tracing an invisible path on the map, "beyond the mountains and forests, stands a solitary peak."
Bilbo leans over the wizard's shoulder, his curiosity momentarily stronger than his confusion. "The Lonely Mountain," he reads aloud.
"Yes, Erebor," Gloin confirms, his red beard trembling with emotion. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say the time has come."
"Ravens have been seen flying back toward the mountain, as was foretold," Oin adds, his ear trumpet pressed against his ear. "'When the birds of old return to Erebor, the reign of the Beast will end.'"
Bilbo, who had been heading toward his pantry, stops dead. "The... the Beast?"
"Oh, that's a reference to Smaug the Terrible," Bofur explains with inappropriate casualness, "chief and greatest calamity of our age. A fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious gold."
"I know what a dragon is," Bilbo interrupts, his face visibly paling.
Ori, the youngest of the dwarves, suddenly rises with youthful impetuosity. "I'm not afraid! I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron!"
Exclamations of encouragement and protest rise around the table. Dori, ever protective, pulls his young brother back down. "Sit down!"
"The task would already be difficult with an army behind us," Balin interjects, the voice of reason in this growing tumult. "But we are only thirteen. And not the thirteen best. Nor the brightest."
This observation triggers a new wave of indignant protests. Voices rise, overlap, filling the small space of Bag End with a racket that makes Bilbo wince.
"Who are you calling stupid?" Nori shouts.
"Speak for yourself!" Gloin adds.
Fili suddenly strikes the table with his fist, restoring some semblance of order. "We may not be many, but we are fighters. Each and every one of us!"
"And you forget we have a wizard in our company," Kili adds, his young face bright with enthusiasm. "Gandalf must have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"
An expectant silence falls over the assembly. All eyes turn to the wizard, who chokes slightly on his pipe smoke, caught off guard.
"Oh, well, no, I wouldn't say..."
"How many then?" Dori insists, fixing Gandalf with eager curiosity. "How many dragons have you killed?"
Gandalf coughs again, deliberately avoiding the question. The dwarves begin to grow restless, their voices rising again in a cacophony of questions and suppositions.
"Come on, give us a number!"
And it is then that Zac's voice rises, calm and cutting, slicing through the hubbub like a blade through a veil.
"One."
The silence is instantaneous, absolute. All gazes, including Gandalf's astonished one, turn toward him. Zac remains impassive under the intensity of their attention, his luminous eyes betraying no lie, no boastfulness.