-General-
"War? What war are you talking about?" asked Kíli, blinking in bewilderment.
"It is a matter that must be discussed in private," replied Aldril, lowering his voice. His sharp senses allowed him to clearly perceive the breathing of two curious little ones hiding in the nearby undergrowth, eavesdropping. "Let us return to Bilbo's house."
Everyone nodded and began the journey back. There was no need to wait for the others. Before running toward the explosion, Tauriel had left her own children in Helga's care; and she knew perfectly well that Bilbo's wife would have planted herself like a mother bear, preventing the desperate children from going out in search of their father at all costs.
...
"Do you think they spotted us?" whispered Merry, crouching among the leaves.
Beside him, a small Hobbit with tousled golden curls shook his head with absolute simplicity.
"I don't think so, Pippin," he replied. "If so, he would have already yelled at us to stop spying."
Pippin nodded, rubbing one of his bare, hairy feet against the other.
"I suppose that makes sense... Hey, aren't you curious to know what the legendary dragonslayer is going to talk about? He said something about a war!"
Merry brought a hand to his chin and narrowed his eyes, imitating the thoughtful gesture of some wise, ancient sage; an obvious mockery that made his cousin smile.
"Of course I am. Let's go."
Both Hobbits—Frodo's cousins, by the way—began to run, maintaining a certain distance to follow the group. Of course, their clumsy footsteps did not go unnoticed by either Tauriel or the Half-elf.
The blessing of the Valar granted them supernatural senses; especially Aldril, who, with his awakened blessing and his draconic blood, was capable of hearing the heartbeat of everyone around him.
It was precisely that which allowed him not only to discover the two spies in the undergrowth, but also to understand why the entire Shire seemed deserted after that explosion. It was not indifference; it was terror. From the safety of their comfortable holes, the rest of the Hobbits suffered from collective tachycardia; terrified that some monster would devour them if they peeked out, they had hastily barred doors and windows, flatly refusing to set foot outside.
But Aldril decided to ignore the widespread panic; the truth was, they were better off that way. The fewer onlookers there were snooping around, the easier it would be to move. Though, on the other hand, he now had to figure out what the hell he was going to do with the pair of miniature spies following them. He had already identified them, and he knew perfectly well that those two Halflings were crucial pieces in the history that was to come.
They walked for a few minutes through the desolate and silent Hobbiton. Before long, they spotted the warm lights of Bag End atop the hill, which continued to defy the darkness of the night, despite the massive gaping hole the explosion had left in the roof.
"I thank the Valar that the blast did not completely destroy Bilbo's house," whispered Aldril, searching for Tauriel's eyes, who held his gaze softly. "I would hate myself if anyone had been hurt because of me."
"Peace, my love. We are not made of paper," she replied with a sweet smile. "Remember that I am still a warrior. Do not let my pregnancy make you forget what I am capable of."
"You are right," he said, sketching a smile.
...
"Dad! / Dad!"
Barely had he crossed the gap into Bag End when his two small children shot toward him to hug him. The echo of their muffled sobs filled the room as they desperately buried their faces in the Half-elf's chest. They had felt fear at the thought of losing him; a fear that had multiplied a thousandfold upon seeing their mother—the same one who always told them stories about their father's invincibility—with absolute panic drawn on her face.
Aldril, forgetting everything—the war, the rings—dropped to one knee on the wooden floor and let himself be enveloped by the small arms of his children. With tenderness, he began to gently pat their backs, whispering to them over and over that everything was alright, that nothing had happened to Papa.
Finally, after managing to calm his children down, the Half-elf gathered everyone in the main sitting room; a suitable place to talk and far enough away from the gaping hole the explosion had left in the entrance.
"We must make haste and head to Rivendell immediately," he began, sweeping his gaze over everyone present.
This included, of course, Frodo and Sam. The loyal gardener had run in terror upon hearing the blast, fearing something terrible had happened to his friend and master, only to end up accidentally entangled in Aldril's plans. Or at least, that was how the poor Hobbit felt about the situation.
"Everyone?" asked Frodo, raising an eyebrow in obvious confusion. "I do not understand, Mr. Aldril. Why us?"
The Half-elf nodded slowly. He closed his eyes for an instant and, upon opening them, the warmth of his hypnotic amber irises had completely vanished, replaced by an icy yellow, slit by sharp draconic pupils. He fixed his gaze on Frodo first, and then slid it toward Bilbo.
"Because Bilbo's magic ring is not just any ring." His eyes descended deliberately toward the burglar Hobbit's pocket.
Everyone in the room frowned and slowly turned their heads toward Bilbo. Finding himself suddenly the center of everyone's attention, the old Hobbit swallowed hard and began to shift his feet with extreme nervousness.
"What do you mean? Say it already, the curiosity is eating me alive!" demanded Kíli, clenching his fists and swaying from side to side, unable to contain his anticipation. He found it infinitely frustrating when people spoke with dramatic pauses or mysterious riddles; and, to top it all off, both Aldril and Gandalf seemed to enjoy doing so.
"The ring Bilbo bears... is the One Ring," the Half-elf declared.
The pupils of those who understood the magnitude of that name contracted sharply in terror, shrinking to the size of a grain of rice. The breathing in the room quickened into a chorus of gasps. Some, as was the case with Fíli and Kíli, took an instinctive step back, genuinely horrified at the small object the Hobbit hid in his clothes.
"But... how the hell did you know?" Fíli managed to articulate, his gaze completely lost in dread.
No one in the room dared to doubt Aldril's words. After all, the one who had just dropped such information was their friend; someone who, while capable of playing heavy pranks day to day, would never play lightly with such a delicate matter.
"I know because my Silmaril clashed directly against it. That collision is what allowed me to understand what cursed object it was," explained Aldril.
Suddenly, his voice died away. He turned his face toward the window, his gaze lost in the nocturnal distance. His fists clenched with such force that his knuckles paled, and his jaw tensed to the maximum. In the darkness, his draconic pupils flashed.
"We need to move now!" he roared, breaking the silence as he stood up. "Those cursed wraiths are already approaching Hobbiton!"
**
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