El Hobbit 2- La Desolacion De Smaug File

It was what Smaug’s awakening would call forth from the dark.

The dragon lay half-buried in gold, one yellow eye cracked open, the pupil a vertical slit of ancient malice. When Bilbo stepped on a coin—just one—the sound echoed like a scream.

“You’re thinking too loud, burglar,” Thorin Oakenshield muttered beside him, his blue cloak tattered, his eyes fixed on the Lonely Mountain’s shadow across the water. “Save your fears for the mountain. Smaug does not care for your conscience.” El Hobbit 2- La desolacion de Smaug

Bilbo said nothing. He had seen the desolation already—not the scorched earth outside the Mountain’s front gate, but the desolation inside Thorin’s heart. The dragon-sickness was already awake in the dwarf-king’s voice. It whispered in every order, every sharp glance.

“Well, thief,” the dragon’s voice rolled, slow as lava, rich as poisoned honey. “I smell you. Shire-rat. You have the stink of courage and stupidity in equal measure.” It was what Smaug’s awakening would call forth

Smaug’s great head lowered, and for a moment—just a moment—Bilbo saw not a monster, but a prisoner.

Smaug did not sleep. That was the first terror. He had seen the desolation already—not the scorched

Bilbo tried to speak, but his throat was full of ash.