THIS IS BASED OFF THE BOOK, NOT THE MOVIES!

Also: OC!Alert. Possible Mary-Sue, though I attempted to make her flawed and have realistic thought processes. Who the fuck knows if I managed it?

Finally: My capitalization for words involving the species of Elf, Man, Dwarf, Dragon, Goblin, and Wolf, etc. alter continuously. Mostly I tried to use caps for the times I was speaking about the species and non-caps for when I was speaking of specific beings.

Part One: Smaug

I suppose I should be grateful for being alive; if it hadn't been for my manner of arrival, there was no doubt in my mind that I would be dead: fried to a crisp and eaten – perhaps tortured a bit. Dragons do not lightly suffer company in their hoards, unless the company intrigues them or bears some resemblance to treasure, and I somehow happened to manage both.

I arrived in the Halls of Erebor, directly on top of a mound of treasure, in a shower of gold sparks.

There is no way for me to explain said arrival; it was mischance that brought me here, nothing more. No Wizard or Vala or Maia – not even Eru Ilúvatar Himself – summoned me forth. No, what called me here was an explosive reaction caused by the interaction between the residual magic left by the dragon's presence and an old gemstone carved by elven hands of the Age of the Two Trees (and howsuch a treasure got into Erebor, I would never know).

Suffice to say, the gem absorbed the magic secreted by the dragon until it could take no more; then it exploded, and the dammed flow of suppressed power was released. Rather than linger within this realm of Middle-earth, or perhaps because of the nature of the elven gem, the magic created a doorway and the flood was released in another world: my world.

The resulting earthquake had to be at least a seven on the Richter scale, tearing down many buildings and quite possibly the Golden Gate Bridge itself with its force, though I would never know if that were so. As it goes with doors sometimes, when the link between our realms closed, the suctioning managed to yank something back with it – me. And because of the amount of magic involved, because of the power that swirled about my body as I was driven through the momentary gap between our worlds (and quite possibly the fact that the gem had been wrought by elven hands and retained some elvish magic), I was forever changed. Into an elf, an immortal, was I transformed – and perhaps that affected Smaug's reaction to me as well.

As I said, I arrived in a shower of gold sparks, thrown down roughly onto a pile of gold and jewels. Bewildered and in pain, I laid there for a time trying to regain my bearings. I'd been walking by the seaside not a moment before, breathing in the fresh, salty air, and now I was landed on a mound of treasure in a place whose air was stifling and old.

"Who are you, Elf?"

A voice loud and deep rang, echoing in the large hall. I sucked in a sharp breath and rolled onto my back, inadvertently sliding slightly downward on the mound of gold and getting stabbed with coins and cups and gems. My eyes came upon the speaker, and at first I couldn't even scream.

There before me, in all his mighty glory, stood a dragon.

A dragon.

If it weren't for the wings, I might have just called him a dinosaur; but there were wings, and, what's more, there was a trail of dark smoke spiralling out of his mouth. His scales were a deep red, the colour a mix of fire and blood, and his eyes were golden and his pupils slit.

"Well?" he prodded, peering closer.

I crawled backward up the slope, mouth moving open and closed in quick succession as I tried and failed to speak. Words evaded me, frightened and confused as I was, until eventually I spoke – though all that came out was a stuttered, "D-dragon!"

"Hmm," mused the dragon, "I always thought Elves were wittier than the other races. Perhaps I should just eat you."

"E-eat me!" I squeaked. "You can't eat me; I'm too young to die!"

The dragon laughed, a horrible rumbling deep within his chest, and more smoke poured out of his mouth. I coughed as it swirled in my face, lifting up my shirt to cover my mouth and nose until it floated away. "Several millennia is too young for you Elves," he jested.

"I'm only twenty-two," I weakly informed him.

"Oh?" the dragon said, eyeing me. "You do not smell as though you are lying, and yet you must be."

"I'm not!" I cried, shaking and holding on tightly to the gold beneath my fingertips.

"That is odd. And how is it you travelled here? A pretty magic, I must say."

"I don't – I don't know!"

And that was when my hand touched it – or what little remained of it. My hand jerked away as a cry escaped me at the feel of the hot metal and melted gemstone. I gazed down in alarm and saw the remnants of a once-beautiful piece of jewellery, still slightly orange from the heat. Above me the dragon's head loomed closer as its keen eyes narrowed to look upon what had harmed me. "That is one of the many elven gems in my hoard," he commented. "How came it to be in such a condition? Did you ruin it?"

"I didn't!" I denied.

"Hmm," he hummed, and he was otherwise quiet while he pondered. At length he spoke again, this time laying his eyes on me: "You say you do not know how you travelled here; yet, here I espy an ancient relic of the Elder Days, destroyed beyond repair."

I crouched silently, staring up at the dragon as he stared down at me. His golden eyes were thoughtful and greedy as he took in my form. His gaze moved often from me to the ruined gem, and sometimes he would hum as though in consideration. "A treasure for a treasure," he decided at last. "I had not thought to take a maiden like in the stories of old, for princesses do not interest me except in eating; yet, I find your strange arrival and manner befitting. No other in Arda can lay claim on such a unique creature as you. You destroyed a piece of my hoard, and you shall pay for it with your life. You are fair enough to behold, and the lives of Elves are long. Yes, that will do. Smaug the Magnificent cannot be called unmerciful, for I shall let you live."

I stared at him in horror, and he returned it with avarice plain on his features. For a moment I wished he would just kill me and be done with it (death would surely be preferable to life with a dragon), but then I recalled that burning to death was one of the most painful ways to go, and I thought that maybe I could find some cliff to throw myself off of.

"Now, what is your name, Elf? What shall I call my new treasure?"

I didn't wish to answer, because myths and folklore said that names held power, but the dragon's voice was charming and it was very difficult to resist. "C-Carmen," I stammered. "My name is Carmen."

I managed to leave out the rest of it, my middle name and my surname – Maria Rossi. I could only hope that it would help me in some way, my not having given him my full name. I doubted it, though. This dragon had been able to drag my real name out of me without having it in the first place, so what difference could it make to withhold the other two?

"Carmen," the dragon enunciated. "It is an odd name, in a language unknown to me. What does it mean, and from what language does it come?"

"The – the translation is 'song', and it – it's Latin."

"And what is this Latin?" he wondered, seemingly delighted. "I have not heard of it."

"An ancient language from Italy," I managed to reply.

"Italy, you say? Is that from whence you came?"

"No, my great-grandparents emigrated from there to America, where I live."

"Where you lived," he corrected absently. "My, it seems you have come a long way indeed! Tell me: what is the name of your land – the entirety of it, not just one land mass?"

"Um...Earth," I answered slowly, the queerness of his question churning impossible thoughts, horrifying thoughts, in my head.

He nodded, stating, "It is as I thought, then."

I remained silent, not wanting to speak unless I had to. I wished he would move away; it was unsettling to have a dragon looming over me like that. He hadn't moved since he'd begun to look at the melted gemstone, keeping his head above me as he observed my expressions and movements.

"Will you not ask what I have concluded?" he cajoled.

"What have you concluded?" I echoed obediently, not wanting to be hurt.

He smiled, and rows of teeth sharp like swords gleamed in the dim light. He didn't reply for a little while, seemingly amused to keep me hanging and to watch me as I grew more impatient and full of dread. "This is Middle-earth," he finally told me. "Arda it was called by the Elves, though many Men and Dwarves have taken to using that name. Yes, you are far from your homeland indeed, and there will be no returning to it."

My eyes grew wide, to his delight, but luckily (for me) he did not know the direction of my thoughts – he did not know how my mind was spinning threads, connecting my situation and location to a boring book I'd read in high school: The Hobbit. He did not know that I now knew of his imminent (but how imminent?) demise – if he had, he surely would have connived and charmed or tortured the information out of me – but, as it were, I spoke not a word of my knowledge in the hope that it would still come to pass.

I just wish I knew how long it would take.

"Now Carmen, my treasure, tell me more of the place from whence you came," he bid.

And that was how I came to be held prisoner within the Lonely Mountain, treasure of the Dragon Dread Smaug, for one hundred years.

The first few days were the worst, for not only did I have to adjust to being an Elf – I blame the fact that I was in the presence of a dragon for my having not noticed his repeatedly calling me 'Elf' – but I also had to deal with the company and the lodgings and, worst of all, the food.

"I can't eat that," I whispered in disgust when the bleeding, severed leg of a deer was thrown before me.

Smaug glared down at me, bearing his teeth as he growled, "Is it not good enough, Princess? Does it not meet your standards?"

I gulped as black smoke wafted out from between his teeth and the back of his throat glowed red like embers. "It – it's raw," I choked. "It'll make me sick if I eat it."

Without warning, fire poured out of his mouth and charred the leg. I was forced to leap back, stumbling and cursing under my breath as my pants caught fire. I slapped the flames to smother them, cringing and crying out in pain as my skin was burned, and soon the flame went out. Tears dripped down my cheeks and off my chin while I stifled sobs, but Smaug looked on in cruel satisfaction as he announced, "There, it is cooked. It shall not make you sick now."

And he stood there watching with narrowed eyes until I crept closer to the blackened meat and began eating. He did not let up until I had swallowed twenty mouthfuls, and at that time he went away with a cheerful laugh. I covered my lips and told myself not to vomit, swallowing down the saliva that pooled in my mouth as my stomach prepared to heave. If I puked, I had a feeling that Smaug would be furious, so I forced my stomach to settle by taking deep breaths of stale air in through my nose.

My bed was a pile of gold, the mound directly next to the one Smaug was fondest of. It was severely uncomfortable to sleep in, with so many different shapes poking me everywhere, but after Smaug's reaction to my wanting cooked food I thought it best not to say anything. Sometimes he would snort in his sleep and fire would spew out of his nostrils and burn me; however, eventually I learned the best way to lie to avoid the flames.

Within the first couple of days, as I bore Smaug's wrath for needing water to drink and bathe in, and somewhere to urinate and defecate, my clothes were burnt to cinders and my body was riddled with scars. Elves might heal quickly, but it was impossible to heal when fire constantly assaulted me, and I was riddled with pain. When he was not hurting me or ignoring me, the dragon was demanding stories and songs and explanations of the things I'd come across in my home.

It was exhausting. I was too terrified to sleep properly, waking constantly and hoping beyond hope that I would blink and be back in San Francisco, and I was wary every time I spoke or moved, waiting for the next time Smaug would get angry with me.

The day my clothes fell off entirely, perhaps a week after my arrival, Smaug considered my naked form and then declared, "Your skin shines like silver in pale moonlight. Elves do not feel the cold, my treasure, thus you have no need for clothes - and you would find none in these halls, besides!"

And that was that.

It was humiliating to walk about without clothes, and the dragon laughed many times when he spotted my red face, yet after a few weeks it became tiresome to hold on to my modesty, and I stopped blushing and shielding my body at all hours of the day and night. On the positive side, Smaug was a dragon and therefore in no way interested in the anatomy of Elves outside of the aspects he found appealing in a purely aesthetical fashion. He just wasn't a sexual creature, and that was something I was glad of.

About two weeks after my clothes had been fully destroyed I worked up the courage (or the stupidity) to ask Smaug a question: "C-could I go outside?"

His large head snapped toward me and an ugly expression slid across his face. "You cannot escape," he snarled.

"I don't mean to," I quickly appeased, and it was done honestly.

I had learned the hard way that the dragon could sniff out lies, and the scars from that had yet to heal. I'd tried to tell him once that I was going to the bathroom when I'd meant to explore the dwarf caves in search of clothes, and he'd known immediately that I was deceiving him. His spiked tail had thrashed me on my thigh and he'd demanded to know the truth of the matter; his learning that I'd been trying to disobey him had caused me even more pain.

It was best to give the dragon whatever he wanted, for I had no hope of escape until Bilbo came – whenever that would be.

"Then why would you desire to go outside? Perhaps you are hoping someone might see you and make an attempt to rescue you, hmm?" he interrogated.

"I'm not!" I objected, and it was true (actually, it had not occurred to me that someone might see me, as no one came near the mountain so far as I could recall from my reading).

"None would succeed," he growled. "A dragon will not give up his hoard, and you belong to me."

"I just wanted to see the sky and breathe fresh air," I whispered, turning my head away so he could not see my tears.

"Perhaps I will let you," he considered.

I looked up, hope shining in my eyes.

"In fifty years or so," he added, and the gleam in his eye told me that he was aware of how much that pained me. It often pleased him to pain me so, just to see my eyes 'glitter with tears, like crystals'. "Yes," he decided, "I shall bring you out to breathe the cool air of the mountain in fifty years. And if you are good, I may take you out every year after that, Princess – but only if you are good."

"I will be," I swore.

And I was.

Though I was still terrified, somehow the fear turned into background noise as the years passed. I became accustomed to living in the Lonely Mountain with Smaug, and though I did not like it, I learned not to hate it. So long as I answered Smaug's questions, entertained him when he desired it, told the truth, and obeyed his every command, life was as painless as it could be in such circumstances. I was still sometimes burned by his flame, but the time between wounds grew longer and longer as I learned his moods. I knew when his anger would cause him to lash out at me, and when his annoyance could be soothed by some fanciful tale from my world. I learned when best to ask things, and how to butter him up with enough flattery to grant my requests.

That was how I got the privilege of cooking my own meat. I was telling Smaug about dinosaurs, and had just finished describing the Tyrannosaurus Rex to him when I blithely added, "I don't think any of them were as large and terrifying as you are."

"Really?" he wondered brightly.

"Really," I affirmed. "I've seen some of the fossils set up in a museum, and they were huge, but you're just as big – if not bigger – and none of the dinosaurs could breathe fire or had scales as tough as diamonds. I don't think they could talk, either. They weren't nearly as clever as you."

"You're flattering me, my treasure," he observed, though he was pleased nonetheless.

"I speak only the truth."

"Yes," he smiled, "and yet praise from you is as rare and as precious as red diamonds or black opals."

I wet my lips and took a breath before asking: "Master Smaug, could I cook my own meat? I might learn how to smoke it to preserve it longer – then you wouldn't have to leave the Mountain so often to fetch me food."

He nodded as I confirmed his suspicions, but he was still too pleased with being called fiercer than a dinosaur, beasts which I'd told him gave nightmares to children billions of years after their extinction. "You may," he allowed graciously.

Afterwards I learned, through trial and error, how to smoke meat – and how to cut and skin animals, as that was something Smaug had not let me do before, when he'd burn my portion to a cinder. My failures still wound up tasting better than blackened meat, though. I was so sick of my protein-only diet, but at least I finally managed to make the taste palatable. Even Smaug liked nipping a bit every now and again.

And so the years passed.

Sometimes time seemed to go on forever, and other times I lost track of it completely and only noted its passing by the growth of my hair, which Smaug preferred I kept down to my ankles (as he said it gleamed like smoky quartz, ever comparing me to the treasure found in his hoard). Sometimes I actually managed to feel something close to comfortable, usually when the dragon was out hunting or sleeping. I couldn't ever really feel comfortable when we spoke though, as I knew that one wrong word could set him off. Thus I always spoke my words with caution, considering my speech beforehand to ensure I got the reaction I desired.

Smaug spoke much and long about Arda, though his knowledge was biased and incomplete. I learned a lot about the lay of the land and, regrettably, which race tasted better and which was funniest to watch flee and cower in fear (Dwarves were best for eating, but Mannish maidens were the most fun to watch suffer). But there was one thing I enjoyed hearing him speak about, and that was the many conversations he had had with the many different species.

He'd spoken to Elves and Dwarves and Men and Goblins – and even Wild Wolves and Trolls! I didn't much like the topics the latter three species chose, but the first three always spoke cleverly. The ones who lived long enough did, anyhow. You had to be witty to survive Smaug, especially if you couldn't catch his interest in another way (like by arriving in a shower of gold from an entirely different dimension after race-swapping).

Throughout the years he adorned me with jewellery, and once he even allowed me to choose something of my own after I'd greatly pleased him with a song. Not once did I stray near the Arkenstone, not even when he gave me the opportunity to take my pick. Instead I decided upon a beautiful but plain mithril circlet with a lone pinky-nail-sized red jewel on the brow. Smaug approved of my choice, commenting that it was only right for a Princess to wear a crown. My reasoning wasn't actually for any such purpose; no, I chose it because it allowed me to keep my hair out of my face without needing to tie it in knots or constantly brush it back. That and I already wore enough silver and gold and stones: I had necklaces and bracelets and anklets, chains that wrapped around my hips and clinked when I moved, and rings on my fingers and in my ears and a single stud in my nose.

At one point Smaug had me make a new piece for my nose, created from what was left of the mithril from the jewel that had brought me here. It was labour-intensive and painful, as I had to deal with being in close proximity to Smaug's fire in a forge while wielding a great hammer. It was the product of many weeks – many weeks which were passed in agony as the first results I achieved were nowhere near good enough for the dragon. Thankfully the stud wound up being good enough in the end, though that was after twenty-seven attempts. Smaug never asked me to alter any bit of his treasure again, and I was glad of it. Not that he would have let me touch anything but that broken piece, anyway.

Fifty years after my coming to Erebor, Smaug took me outside for the first time, like he promised. He brought me out to the closed gates and had me climb up a set of narrow stairs to stand on top while he looked on suspiciously.

It was almost too much for me.

The wind whipped my exceedingly long hair back and pricked at my face. My lungs breathed in deeply and the cool, clean, light air stung as it entered. It was night, but the pale half-moon seemed exceedingly bright after having dwelt beneath the mountain for half a century and I had to squint against it. Despite the slight pain in my retinas, it was a beautiful sight.

I could see a river flowing below, the cold and powerful current moving swiftly and sounding like music to my ears. There was grass in abundance, and trees in the distance. If I squinted, I could see them sway in the breeze. The sky, though. The sky took my breath away. It was blanketed with thousands – perhaps millions – of stars, all shining brightly and clearly in the cloudless night.

I hadn't seen the sky in fifty years.

It was so vast – endless, really – and it made me weep, for I felt peace for the first time in this strange place. It was as though the stars were singing sweetly to me, some soft lullaby I'd half-forgotten. They winked at me and sang, and the wind joined them in their comforting chant. "All will be well," they seemed to say. "You will be safe when Smaug is gone, and you will be free to run in open fields and dance beneath us."

"Come now," Smaug called, "if you weep at the sight, perhaps I should not bring you here next year."

"I weep because I am happy," I explained as I regretfully descended the stairs.

I took one last glace at the sky, and the stars seemed to whisper, "Be strong!" before I descended back into the heart of the Mountain.

After that it was both harder and easier to continue living in the Lonely Mountain. On the one hand, it was easy for me to count the passing years; on the other, I didn't know when Bilbo and the Company would come. I could be waiting another fifty years, or a century! But I had seen the sky at last, and breathed the free air. The sight and smell had evoked within me a flame brighter than Smaug's own dragon-fire. It was the taste of freedom and of hope – the hope for freedom at long last.

I didn't know how long it would take, but I would be free of Smaug one day; the dragon would be slain by Bard of Lake-town and I would walk out of this horrible, dark mountain and greet the sun and the moon. I would sleep beneath the stars and dance with the wind; I would sing to the moon and praise the sun, the sun which I had not seen for fifty years.

Smaug noticed the change in me immediately. "You are glowing, my treasure," he commented.

"I usually do," I responded in confusion.

"That is so," he agreed, "but I mean you have an air about you that speaks of happy thoughts."

"I saw the sky and the moon, and I felt fresh air on my face – none of which I have beheld for fifty years. It brought me great joy, Master Smaug," I confessed.

"You shall witness the night again in a year's time, if you do not misbehave," he reminded me.

"Thank you," I said.

I counted the years as they passed by, and when fifty more came and went, the thing I had long been waiting for occurred: the Company of Thorin Oakenshield came to take back the Mountain.