Don't let Smaug's casual flights to chat with Thranduil or Beorn's easy trekking fool you. Mirkwood is exactly as its name implies: dark, oppressive, and—outside of the Elven King's central domain—a literal labyrinth of shadow.
To wander in without a map or a guide is to invite the forest to swallow you whole, leaving nothing but bleached bones in the mulch.
Gandalf stood at the edge of the trees, leaning on his staff. He knew the safe paths, but he also knew Thranduil's temperament. Despite his secret knoedge that the Elves and Smaug were now "business partners," he couldn't reveal that to the Dwarves. He needed an excuse to wait.
"We wait here for a few hours," Gandalf announced. "The Wood-elves will likely spot us. We should gauge their attitude before we intrude."
For once, Thorin Oakenshield didn't argue. He looked at the gnarled, sickly trees and felt the ancient weight of the forest's malice. "Three hours," Thorin grumbled, crossing his arms. "No more."
The party settled onto the dirt, opening their packs for a grim lunch. Gandalf puffed on his pipe, watching the shadows dance between the trees.
...
Inside the halls of the Woodland Realm, a scout arrived with word of the intruders. Thranduil didn't need a description; he knew exactly who was standing at his doorstep.
His mind drifted to the old prophecy: When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the beast's reign will end.
Thranduil let out a rare, genuine chuckle. It was a cold sound, but there was a hint of amusement in it. He leaned his chin on his hand, his rings catching the dim torchlight.
To Gandalf, this was a divine mandate. But Thranduil, having seen Smaug's political maneuvering over the last few months, found it absurd. If Thorin is the bird come to end the Beast, Thranduil thought, he's going to find the Beast busy managing a trade union and a reforestation project.
"Ignore Mithrandir and his rabble for now," Thranduil commanded his guard. "Send a messenger to the Mountain immediately. Tell Smaug that Thorin Oakenshield has arrived at my borders. If the dragon has forgotten the name, explain that it's the 'rightful' owner of his bed."
"As you command, my King."
...
Three hours passed. No Elves appeared to greet them.
"Time's up," Thorin said, standing and dusting off his tunic. "You remember the way, Wizard?"
"I remember the Elf-path," Gandalf replied. "As long as we do not stray from it, we are safe."
They abandoned their horses at the forest edge—taking animals into the thicket without Elven guides was a recipe for disaster. Ten minutes later, the light of the sun vanished, replaced by a suffocating, grey twilight.
The environment was the polar opposite of Bag End. Bilbo felt the air grow heavy, as if the forest were trying to squeeze the breath out of his lungs. "Gandalf... I've never seen a forest like this. It feels... dead. But watching."
"The story of this wood is long and sad, Bilbo," Gandalf said softly. "I'll tell it to you on the journey back."
The journey back. Bilbo tried to find comfort in the idea, but as they walked past a suit of ancient armor that had long since collapsed into a pile of rusted scraps and bone, his heart sank.
They walked for hours. Or was it days? In the Mirkwood, time lost its edges.
Suddenly, Gandalf stopped. He looked left, then right, his brow furrowing.
Thorin, sensing the hesitation, groed, "Gandalf... tell me you haven't lost the path."
"Be patient," Gandalf said with a strained, awkward smile. "I haven't been here in a long time, and the Shadow has twisted the landmarks. I'll find it."
"You had better," Thorin hissed. "We are too close to the end to die in a thicket."
...
At the Great Gate of Erebor, a Wood-elf messenger skidded to a halt on his horse.
Gollum, acting as the world's most hideous receptionist, stood up from his crouch. He stared at the Elf with his large, unblinking eyes. "Elf-thing. What does you wants?"
"Inform Smaug at once," the messenger said, used to the creature by now. "Thorin Oakenshield has reached the Mirkwood. He is the Prince of the Line of Durin—"
"We knows who he is!" Gollum snapped, waving a spindly hand.
He turned and scurried into the deeps. Moments later, he reached the golden chamber where Smaug was lost in a thunderous snore. Gollum grabbed the edge of a massive scale and began to shove.
"Master! Master! Wake up, precious! No more sleeping!"
No response.
"Gollum... Gollum..." The creature tilted his head, a dark thought crossing his mind. "Precious... he has slept so long. Is he dead? Has he slept himself to death?"
"If he is dead, the Precious is ours! Yes!"
Smaug's massive, slitted eye snapped open, a golden furnace igniting in the dark. He looked at the cowering Gollum. "I am not dead."
Gollum instantly dropped to his knees, a greasy, flattering smile plastered on his face. "Exalted Master! You is awake! We is so happy! Truly!"
Smaug let out a low, vibrating huff. He noticed that Gollum had spent so much time with the Goblins and humans lately that he was starting to develop the instincts of a professional sycophant.