The Hobbit - The Desolation of Smaug Edition (ON HOLD)

3. Light Behind Haze

Howls, growls and displeasing manners echoed throughout the night, the darkness hollow, piercing through the forest embracing the plain in the glade, such as a dark blanket washing down to Earth, but instead stripping the world of its warmth and security. The growls and groans from the giant creature pacing a flat stone from left to right and back again high above the ground, with a view over the glade lying in a mystic bright-blue fog, appeared so dark and furious, yet worried and defeated as if the bear, if he could utter words, regretted his earlier actions towards the company. As if he was dwelling in a great sorrow that couldn’t be tamed. As if pending back and forth on the stone, scraping his sharp claws to make marks resembling the work of chalk was for a secretive longing for something more than just forgiveness. His rough flesh of battle constellations and mistreatment, stripping the scars of fur, furrowed and drew backwards in a bitter, fearful scowl, just on the path running towards his coal black nose – dry and peeled like the bark of a tree. As he did, his fangs carving by the inside and outside of his lip exposed themselves, earning a somewhat lighter color by the desperate light imprisoned behind the fog, coloring it in that bright-blue manner of the moon.

Behind the fangs, a humming noise was growing within Beorn’s throat, slowly escalating to be replaced by a growl and then a roar, like a nail being forcibly drawn across metal by the sharp edge. He bash his fangs, keeping his yellow, illuminated gaze steadily heaved into the shallow darkness of the forest behind him, like an owl observing with wisdom and in silence on a branch. He turned, tilting his head to the right, his shoulder blades and backbone rising in a fearsome manner, his stern head lowering towards the ground.

I hear you. I smell you, and don’t you approach, you, foul creature. Growling like scraping nails over iron, howling in an agonizing yelp replaced these words, rolling on repeat through his mind in awe.

The attacker had now turned into the protector.

Small, helpless squeaks could be heard from all corners of the house. White, furry creatures appeared, wiggling out of the hay stacks in the stable. They ran across the floor, climbed the even and beautiful wood work of pillars and tables. They investigated long chess boards and gnawed on bread crumbs and straw.

The apparent bright-blue light through the fog seeped into the gaping holes of the house’s roof. It cast spotlights across the floor, illuminating the animals on the munching hay and the straw covering the wooden floor.

The company had spread out on the floor just like they had in the cave of the Misty Mountains. Now they laid there, snoring, complaining in their sleep, with their gear, armour and weapons tightly clutched in their grasp by their side, ready to awaken by the slightest sound or sign of danger or treat.

Bilbo lay awake, tapping his fingers against his knuckles in a steady, musing rhythm, piercing his gaze in the high roof with a deceptive, yet secure darkness. He sat upright, his blanket embracing his waist and legs above his clothed body. He threw a watchful eye around the dark room, observing the peaceful expressions of the Dwarves, until he found that none was awake. He lay back down on his side, perched up on his elbow in the straw carpeted floor. His eyes widened, his heart beat faster and his breath quickened as he observed the company one more time for a sign – a sign that someone might be watching his actions. No one moved. The snoring and complaining proceeded. The squeaking came from all corners of the house, as Bilbo dug into his pocket, holding his breath as his fingers met the cold, hard metal of the ring. The gold so fine and smooth to his touch, as the slipped it out of his pocket and held it up in front of him. The hollow middle captured the scene of the napping company before him. Its smooth, round edges blazed in the bright-blue light streaming in from the outside. It was so beautiful, so innocent, so small that Bilbo had to blink several times to assure himself that it was real. He felt the smooth surface with both his hands, turning it in between his fingers, rolling it across his skin, smiling lovingly as if it was alive – something precious and important.