Author's Note


Hello everyone! This is my first (official) fanfiction. This account, at least since it was created, was simply a test, but I'm glad I was able to return and actually use it. I hope you can approach this story with an open mind, since it focuses on a separate plot from The Hobbit and LOTR, though the events of the War of the Ring will appear at some point.

I took Gostir from wiki/Gostir and to my surprise, there's almost nothing known about the dragon of Morgoth. As such, I don't own anything related to Middle Earth, all rights go to Tolkien for creating the fabulous world!


Chapter One: A Chance Arrangement

The Valar have a grand sense of humor. To Men, Elves, and Dwarves alike, they who saw so much evil once believed that it could not be immortal, that it can be defeated, and once gone, the whispers of its name will fade from history, becoming only a vague memory to those who once combated it. Yet why could evil disappear yet hang so high in the sky, gazing down upon Middle Earth like a Great Eagle searching for its prey? Who would think to look up at the grey clouds, seeing in them not the presence of rain that would bring youth, life, and growth, but the resurgence of evil?

-o-

Gandalf knew very well that The Necromancer would return one day, when he found in him new power and strength as well as an abundance of new allies to serve him. After he had seen Bilbo off, Gandalf began his research and travel across Middle Earth, learning as much as he could about the inevitable evil that would rise up, and about the mysterious ring Bilbo had found. Such a curious thing that the hobbit prided himself over, and even Gandalf's kind visage couldn't forget that such powerful items had secrets.

His travels brought him one stormy night in The Prancing Pony in the settlement of Bree, where he had stopped to rest after a visit with Bilbo at The Shire. The men in town seemed particularly apt in hushed chatter and gossip that night, and it was enough for the wizard to raise a bushy eyebrow at. Of the conversations around him at the crowded tavern, he could pick up only tidbits. It seemed that the name Gostir was on many a tongue, and when mentioned, the expressions on people's faces were often disbelief, suspicion, and even amusement.

Gostir…The name was a vague one to Gandalf. After Smaug had been vanquished, were more rumors of dragons bound to pop up across the land? Little to nothing was known about the ancient dragon who was said to have been slain by warriors north of the Withered Heath. Nothing to worry about, assuredly, but as Gandalf retreated to his room where he longed so very much to retire to, he found one of the many books he had carried along his journey, and with the glow of a candle and puff of his pipe, began flipping the pages of a tome on dragons to recall Gostir.

"One of the most mysterious dragons known to Middle Earth was Gostir, he who had a Dread Glance. His spotted grey wings were stained in the blood of his brethren, and eventually, that of Men in the late First Age. Smaller than his father, the Father of Dragons Glaurung, he was still a mighty sight, with his scales that were like sharpened scythes. Little is known of his early life, as he maintained a constant vigil among the peaks of Ered Lithui. The great winged beast did not act like the Dragons Middle Earth knew. Instead he pitied man for their weakness, and scorned his greedy kind. This did not stop the people that lurked near the home of Dragons far west of the Iron Hills from drawing their swords and bows against him. When his wings cast a great shadow over Rhovanion and Mirkwood as he longed to return to his home, those who would raise their weapons up met him before he could reach mountains of refuge. Who was he to claim himself unaffected by greed and pride of his kind, when he did not look upon them as they starved and froze and suffered nature's wrath? Could he pity them when he sat upon a great high, with his wings catching the wind and his hunt easy? All dragons had an urge to dominate, and they were created by Melkor to wreak havoc upon mortal kind.

Even when his life was threatened and his eyes could clearly see what the people suffered, he remained wordless, so their arrows struck his breast when fire met shields and flesh. They burned and they bled because rage and sorrow was too much of a burden to bear when they watched their children die. Many of them lost their lives to fight the injustice of ignorance, but they had at last found their peace when the dragon lay at their feet. Even as he gave his dying breath and the men lowered their guard for a time of respite, they still heard his fell voice in a whisper on the wind. Sweat was a sheen on their brows as though the dragon's fire still roared. Justice was done for them, and they could go back to wife and children with livened hope. Still, as evil cannot be immortal, and justice comes eventually to all, they would continue to feel his gaze upon them and the heaviness of his breath in the air they breathed.

Their people would die out slowly, but when at last their kind dwindled, a prophecy was struck in stone laying at their feet. A message from heavens and stars above! Oh, joy they felt that they could be guided with purpose after so many tears shed at their lost people and livelihood. It was not a blessing that they felt, but an evil omen. Their dreaded foe was truly not dead. His soul lingered among the stars and heavens, waiting to be reborn inside of the humanoids that roamed the land. The time when he would seek to claim a body would be a dawning age of bloodshed and brutality, as well as sacrifice. When evil from Valar above would try to claim power, Gostir would return. To the dying group of people who were delivered this prophecy, vengeance and dread filled their hearts, though the message before them spoke of no evil from the dragon's soul directly. A strange thing it was, but perhaps when he would reappear there would be another foe? It seemed clear to the people what their next steps were. This token from deities who saw past, present, and future altogether must be relayed to every man and woman that claimed life upon Middle Earth. With the little men and women the people below the Iron Hills had, they slowly began to disperse and mingle among the races to make faint murmurs of what was relayed to them. Not enough to stir up panic, but enough for this passage to be written, and for the dear reader to heed its words.

When Gostir returns, if there is a chance given by the Valar for him to breathe in the breeze again, know that past evil does not always mean future evil. Be wary and vigilant, for if you come across a peculiar male who stands out among his kind, think back to what I have told you, and remember that evil may not be far ahead."

Little, Gandalf mused, was known on Gostir still, as the passage retelling the dragon's life was minuscule compared to what other sections of the book proclaimed. Still, it was enough to make him rub his beard in contemplation. Why would common men who had more important things to worry about than long-lost prophecies and stories told by wiser people be whispering about a dead dragon all of a sudden? The answer could have been clear, but Gandalf would not be one to assume. His eyes were tired and the candle wax dripped with melancholy of burning as the hour was late. Retiring his pipe and hat upon the chest top at the foot of his bed, he knew that such an investigation would have to wait until morning. He'd had enough of dragons for a lifetime, anyway.

-o-

Dawn approached with the singing and chatter of birds, but ceased the chatter of dragons. The men and women of Bree still had their conversations that were out of place, but the subject had changed to Edoras. It wasn't uncommon for them to talk about the capital city of Rohan, but the city was fairly common in its dealings, and the people's topics of conversation were anything but. Some idle prattle about a young girl appearing from Minas Tirith begging for information on a most peculiar name. She had been there for a week, and frankly it was getting on everyone's nerves. A useless rumor of course, nothing out of the ordinary except a strane girl who poked her nose into things she should not meddle with. She was clearly desperate and oblivious to the people's suspicion around her, and she grated everyone's nerves.

Gandalf was ready to set out to see where the wind might take him for news he might uncover, but the same rumor about the girl was repeated among the people. As he made his way close to the gates, he stopped a man who seemed to know more than the rest about Edoras.

"Forgive me, but have you any news of what goes on in Edoras?" The wizard examined the man's face, clean of dirt that plagued the people. He spoke with a kind voice, as the old man in him would to use to his advantage subconsciously.

"Aye, sir. The people are as hungry as ever, bless the Rohirrim. I don't know why you would care, sir. Not much has changed despite what happened east. Unless you are like all these folk who ask the same question, about the madness that has seemed to have appeared from The White City. I swear, 'round here the people's eyes widen if they hear something that is more interesting than them milking cows and tending to children." The man did not look the part of a man from Rohan, and as he tended to his bay horse he seemed like a bird ready to bolt.

"Indeed. What is this 'madness' you speak of so feverishly?" Gandalf broached, coming closer to the man and watching him as he untied his mount from a pole by the gates.

At this, the man shook his head and smirked bitterly, spitting at the ground and digging his boots into soil. "More of a 'who' than a 'what'. In fact, I was the one who took her to the city. Paid me a measly sum to take her from The White City to Edoras. I cannot believe for the life a' me how young she was. Someone like that ought to still be suckling from her mother's breast." He chuckled and waggled his head again, and Gandalf resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. "Ah, but you want to know more about 'er? She did not say much, but kept her face concealed in the shadows of a cloak. I tell ya', she couldn't have been older than thirteen winters. Spoke real pretty too with a fair face marred with fresh claw marks. Reckon a wolf got her before she found me posted at a tavern outside Minas Tirith. Seemed to be okay other than that."

"You did not ask the girl's name or any other information?" Gandalf was skeptical at this man, to ride with a child without parents and few words was not something becoming of an honorable man.

"Ah, you see, sir, in my line of work, some people are not the best a' people and need a quick getaway. Besides, she was quick to hurry me up after paying me." Without a glance, the man hoisted him up onto the saddle of his horse, though remaining stationary. "If you want to know more about your mystery madwoman, I would point ya' to the girl 'erself. Good day to ya'." With that, he rode off, disappearing among the sea of people crowding the gates at the time of the day. Looking to the sun, he pondered the man's words and suggestion. Perhaps a visit to Edoras was due, though he had little reason to pursue the girl. As he decided on his next course of action, he listened and watched as the people worked and chatted among themselves.

"I do hate t' repeat myself, dear sister, but the way the men described the wailing!" A woman burst out with laughter, covering her mouth with her hand as she toted a basket of bread and fruit beside another similar looking person. "'Please, does anyone know how to remove my curse? Please sir, my parents say that I have been corrupted. But whatever could I be corrupted from among smithies and guards of a white tree?"" Another jolt of laughter, but the woman's sister only shook her head.

"It was more like talk of children's stories, legends that would never come true. Perhaps a dragon was slain in the east, but why would a child talk of a different one, if any? She should worry about shaping up if she is to take a husband." The sterner, more mature voice of the mocking woman's sister commented as she wiped her pudgy face with a rag. "I swear, if one of those types comes into this fine settlement, off with her head and spit on her for good measure! We do not need unintelligent women who forget their femininity and grace."

"Ah, lighten up. You just say that because you are married and with children of your own, and your man runs off in the middle a' the night. I do hope that girl's tongue is silenced, though. I am sure that Rohan would sleep better without the voice of a whining child ringing in their dreams."

-o-

More talk passed through about the nameless girl who longed for stories of dragons who concealed her face from the world and travelled alone. As Gandalf sped down The Green Way without true cause or reason, he wondered how trivial such a pursuit would be. In his endless life he had no need to worry about whether it was a waste of time, though it was possible it could be taking up his time into learning of The Necromancer. He would hope that he would not miss too much on his way to Edoras. The North-South Road was the point of no return in which he would not change his mind, and he did not as he went back and forth between riding and resting. Past Isengard and the Fords of Isen he would go, letting the countless days of travel pass by, to finally gaze upon the towering city of Edoras.

A proud one it was, a grand settlement of men and women though how so much the Rohirrim suffered. Their faces never changed when encased in the city's walls. Valiant in battle they were, unafraid of death and destruction. He admired their strength and willpower, but here at their capital, sunken cheeks marred what he had once always seen. Strange how nature and fortune worked, for the people once had a bounty of food and resources.

He was given soft and weary looks as he passed through, pulling down the brim of his pointy hat so that he might conceal it from those who suspected at a glance. He was only here for one thing, a chance arrangement, perhaps fate or destiny, or perhaps he was foolhardy. He did not doubt his wisdom or instinct though. He had been sent to this earth for a reason, and reasons would he find to give, and receive in turn.

-o-

Eyes that once were hardened cried out desperation in turn. They were midnight blue nights without stars, and their owner was a dreary soul, like a wet rag slumping from the table top to the floor with all of its weight in clear water, such a burden it had to bear to do its job. Still, there was strength in it, resistance and will to hold its shape and not be overcome. Virtue and talent are useless without willpower, and though the young soul that sat hunched over on the ground as rain started to pour had little but a smoldering flame of it. She was too young to feel its heat in her bones and voice, to cry out against what went against what she desired. In this world where men ruled, she felt like a spineless shrew, yet she would still try and try, with all her might, though paltry.

She was the one who was most interested in a name that had once been a whisper of a dying people who bled and burned because rage was fire in their veins that did not burn like Gostir's mighty breath. As Gandalf approached her, he was taken aback by her appearance. Dripping wet jet black hair that was covered in as many braids as could fit, a dash of freckles upon her nose, and a sharp, intense look about her that held no fire. The most apparent thing to him were the bloody bandages wrapped around her head that barely allowed her to see. She had been attacked by a lone wolf when fleeing from something too terrible for her heart to bear any longer. It had struck two deep cuts upon her temple, one that went from her eyebrow to her temple, and another one that dripped fresh blood down her nose and ran beneath her eyes before meeting its sibling. Dried crimson was upon her cheek, lip, and ragged clothing which could only be somewhat dried by her moth-eaten cloak.

She watched him as he made his way toward her, frightened by how he did not shy away from her crying and yells of 'Please, anyone!' and 'Will no one aid me?'. Burrowing further into the shadows of her cover, she inched away from him as subtly as she could. The way he looked at her, such compassion in his features, was unknown to her. It struck a sharp chord in her heart and left panicked butterflies to gnaw at her insides. Her lips trembled for some words that they might give, a question, an answer, anything.

"Sir," she paused to look up meekly at his gaze as he had come to tower above her with his bushy eyebrows and beard, and a hat that would make her smile, if not for the current mood of the situation. "You are not like the others. A traveler, so I am sorry if I bothered you. Really, this Edoras is full of strong people. They have just had a bad turn of events. Do not think that my appearance is a common occurrence and annoyance." It was the best she could do quietly without her voice wavering so much that he might hear her fear in her rumblings.

"Be calm, young one. You are no bother to me, but a concern." He gave her a smile, for what it could be worth. "I am Gandalf. May I ask you for your name, dear girl?" She reminded him of a deer with the way she acted, but her angular features were wild and held determination even if the spirit did not.

"My name? Zerith, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you, Gandalf." She would remember her manners lest he be offended and disappear back to the people, another one who would demand that her shrill tongue be silenced. She realized that he was staring back at her still in anticipation. A surname? Family ties? She had left them all behind, for they were not truly hers, even through blood. It took only a moment for her to spit out a title she could conjure up. "Zerith Graywynd, lone daughter of Graywynd the Fearless, if that is what you want." She stared up at him with a soft smile as she replied, watching him with curiosity evident beneath the rags she called clothes.

"And to you, little one. You should not be out in this gathering storm, not with a fresh wound that has not been properly taken care of. If you would allow it, may I take a closer look at your forehead?" He offered a wrinkled, warm hand to help her up, and she gazed in wonder at it. A kindly stranger for once who is not burdened by famine, but can he truly help me? I pray, how I pray… With great hesitation, she took his hand in her small pale one and rose to her feet with a shiver, balling up the ends of her cloak in fists as she tried to keep warm. At a beckon from the wizard, she followed him to a bench beneath a low hanging canopy of a house and sat down, staring at her feet with toes sticking out of worn shoes. He gently took her chin in his hands, forcing her stare upwards as he produced fresh, clean bandages and what she knew to be alcohol. Timidly she removed her cloak and unraveled the bandages which dampened her fingers with her lifeblood.

"It is bad, so forgive me for the sight. I just… there was nothing for me to do. The man who brought me here gave me the bandages, but that was a few days ago and the cuts are not doing well." Her eyes were glassy with tears and she could not bear to meet those soft eyes again that had made her heart warm with how much kindness he radiated, like her light in darkness.

The cuts were quite deep and the child could very well have been plunged in half-darkness had the wolf aimed any better for her eye. She winced as he pressed a cloth with the alcohol to her cuts and tears passed their cold gates to mix with her long, dark hair. He took in the way her gaze never faltered from his as she felt the sting of the sterilization, and how drenched in sorrow she seemed to be. Even as he replaced her bandages and gave a gentle squeeze of her hand, she still stared in deep contemplation. It was barely a whisper when she spoke, and were they in a noisier place, he wouldn't have heard it.

"Why have you come here, Gandalf? Those who approach me do not do it out of curiosity. If they were able, they might sew my lips together so that I might not ask for help because they can not give it and don't want to encourage my rambling." Her voice was rough, too mature for her, which brought him to speak.

"You are in need of aid, and I will give it. Tell me, how old are you? You should not be alone here, and you should not have come to this place." He studied her face as she crept away from him internally, and her mind began a debate. She would proceed very carefully.

"I am twelve winters, sir. There are many things that should not be done, but it does not stop anyone and it did not stop me. Where else would I go? Not to the elves, for I am not one of their kind and do not know how to approach them. I must go where someone might listen, might know, but I see that perhaps it was foolish of me to even try to discover my purpose." A long drawn out pause afterwards, where he saw her rise from her seat and strike a glance of him. It was defiance, and of what even she did not know, but it was a blaze of glory to achieve her dreams.

"Your parents are those who must care for you. Are you an orphan?"

"No, Gandalf. They are the reason I came here, for their hate for me is rooted from one thing that no one knows about. I trekked here to find someone who does. It was hard getting here. I had to steal money just to pay for someone to take me here, but that is not important now. Anyway, do you happen to know anything about dragons? Nobody here is offering anything on the matter, what with that dragon and the dwarves." Her every word was hesitant and afraid that his face might lose its soft composure of wisdom and age.

"Dragons? What might you be in need of knowledge of dragons for other than bedtime stories?"

She looked around at the people that slowly passed by, and they were out of earshot. "My parents told me that everyone was warned about someone like me. They say that a 'Ghost er' is plaguing me. Is it some sort of plague? What is a 'Ghost er'? Anyone who is not like me, not adults, I mean, keeps saying that. I do not understand." She displayed confusion, but her heart beat quickly with anxiety.

'Ghost er'? A strange thing. Though with the way she said it, it was a name, not a phrase. He came to a grim realization that she was indeed talking of a name. Minas Tirith must have been especially wary when the people from the west of the Iron Hills traveled there to spread news of a prophecy carved in stone… Now, his heart fell for the young girl. He did not quite understand how her parents could have known that an ancient dragon's soul lived inside her, nor why they stayed their hands. To harm a child was heinous, but Gostir was always treated like a monster that must be exterminated as soon as he appears again.

His wonder caused his voice to deepen. "And how could they have known that this 'Ghost er' was plaguing you, as you say?"

"Well," she drew closer to him to speak in a hushed voice. "One day, as I was helping my mother prepare food, there came a knock upon our door. I answered at my mother's beckon, and outside there were some cruel children who loved to belittle me and throw dirt at me. They started to call me names, and instead of being sad, I got really angry. I felt really warm, like I could explode, and as soon as I opened my mouth, there was fire in my voice! I do not know how I did it, I swear! It was enough to make my mother run for me and the children outside. I looked up at her for consolation, but there was only…" Her voice trembled, and she pulled away from him. "Disgust. Like I was foreign." Shaking her head, she sat upon a bench. "I should not have told you. It is not a good thing, I know. Once people heard about what happened, they knew something I did not and whatever it was is not good."

What could he do with the child was now the question at large. It was obvious that no one would take her in, and that she could not control whatever it was that brought out the unnatural part of her. "I am here to help you, but you cannot stay here. I believe that I know what troubles you greatly, but you must learn to control it."

"What am I to do? Where can I go?" She looked to him for guidance, the innocence of purity in her eyes that clouded everything within her.

"I will find somewhere for you to live, and I will help you to understand. You cannot return to your parents, nor tell anyone of this. Trust can dissolve easily with those who know what true fear feels like instilled inside of them." He was apprehensive, but had little choice. She must be protected, from others and more importantly, herself. Balance must be found.

"I have no choice, and thank you for your help, but why will people hate if they know something like that happened? In the darkest recesses of herself, she knew the reason even if her consciousness couldn't delve into its murky waters.

"You are a fire breather, with a strong grasp on freedom and strength, but with so much to hold your life in the balance."

Author's Note

Jeez. This fanfic is so much smaller in person than it originally was. Forgive my sinning by not indenting my paragraphs, though they are indented in the original doc. Oh, formatting, or maybe it's just because I'm a novice. Anyway, reviews are appreciated, I hope you enjoyed. This fanfic (I hope) will be updated every week since school is starting and I'll be busy. Currently I'm almost done with the third chapter. Until then, fellow fangirls/boys!