Chapter Text
In a hole in the ground, there lived a Hobbit.
Said Hobbit lived right in the heart of the Shire, nestled amongst rolling green hills and other hobbit holes overflowing with comfort. This Hobbit walked – or rather scurried – on two furry feet. Bilbo Baggins, some called him. A perfectly respectable name for a perfectly respectable hobbit, one who enjoyed a second breakfast and smoking in the afternoon sun as much as the next.
But, as Gandalf the Grey would merrily tell you, this hobbit had more than meets the eye.
He was not just any hobbit, mind you. This one, with his unruly curls and a perpetually mischievous glint in his eye, was a walking enigma. Obviously, he was, in fact, content with second breakfasts and tending to pipeweed. But he just needed more than this simple life. He craved adventure. He was a whirlwind of a creature, forever flitting from one far-flung corner of Middle-earth to another. His home, a hobbit-hole far larger than any respectable hobbit would require, was a testament to his eclectic tastes. Walls adorned with faded maps whispered of forgotten lands, while shelves groaned under the weight of curious trinkets – troll teeth, elven daggers, a petrified dragon scale. It was a place that buzzed with the unseen echoes of his exploits.
His reputation preceded him.
Travelers from far-off lands spoke of him in hushed tones. In the bustling tavern of Bree, he was known as Prince Took, a jovial soul with a penchant for disappearing acts and reappearing with pockets brimming with outlandish tales (And, sometimes, with a drunk traveler's money pouch). In the Shire, whispers followed him like wisps of smoke. He was "Mad Baggins" to some, a title not entirely untrue, considering his unorthodox ways. Even his official title, Master Baggins, was often punctuated with a nervous giggle or a muttered: "though some say...". In the halls of Rivendell, however, he was Laur nin – "My little one".
Beyond the Shire (And beyond Rivendell), his legend took on a grander, more unsettling tone.
It was whispered in hushed tones by campfire embers and in the flickering lamplight of guarded taverns - The Smiling Demon.
The legend claimed that if you crossed with him, and if you bore his mark, the Smiling Demon would come for you. Unseen, relentless, he would find you and your demise would be swift and silent. There were whispers of poisoned darts, of blades that moved in a blur, but no one knew for sure. No witness had ever laid eyes on The Smiling Demon's true face, no trap had ever held him. He was a phantom, a name spoken in fear, shrouded in an aura of mystery. Legends rarely hold the whole truth, and this one was no exception. The Smiling Demon wasn't some monstrous creature from the darkest corners of Middle-earth. He was swift, silent, and deadly, that much was true. But who he truly was, and the nature of his deeds, remained shrouded in an enigma as thick as a mountain troll's beard.
Some whispered of a wronged soul seeking vengeance, others of a guardian protecting the innocent from unseen threats. The truth? It was locked away as tightly as the secrets in the heart of Mount Doom.
One thing was certain: The Smiling Demon was a riddle wrapped in an enigma.
And that, perhaps, was the most terrifying thing of all.