Chapter Text
The Hobbiton dragon became famous in the end. So undragonish that it was rumoured he was a different sort to the usual kind. A smaller species with different habits. Rather than a cave he liked a snug well-built hobbit hole, bigger of course than customary, with a thatched roof shored up on great trunks of wood and green with moss and ferns, and thick curtains across the entrance.
He’d been nervous about sleeping anywhere so accessible at first. But gradually, as more and more young hobbits begged rides and some of the older ones asked to be taken up for what they called reconnaissance, he’d relaxed and could even be found sometimes dozing with his head outside his door, small puffs of smoke drifting upwards as he exhaled.
Visitors approaching from a distance could see him as well, soaring and diving and spiralling, showing off and stretching his wings in the sun. Larger delegations would find him swooping towards them, greeting wanderers or checking on them before returning to town to tell them to expect visitors.
Not that he was always at home. Douglas had returned to the mountains with enough gold to raise a family, but that was barely a morning’s flight for Martin, and he, like Arthur and Carolyn, had come back from travels wondering how he’d ever managed to circumscribe himself to the narrow confines of one cave, one kingdom. The four of them would disappear for weeks at a time, coming back with exotic fruits and tales of adventure.
Of course that meant they were never quite respectable, by hobbit standards, but since Carolyn and Arthur were untroubled, Martin didn’t understand the concept and Douglas thought it ridiculous, they lived happily ever after anyway.