Hey, look. This was updated. It only took me over a year and three months. No big deal.

Not going to give excuses; I just felt no inspiration to write this. But I decided that I would like to at least try. So, more than a year later, here we are. I wonder if this will even get a measly 50 hits tomorrow.

figuredwthnot - Not really. I really have little idea where I want this story to go, if I'm honest. But, I did have fun writing this update, and I have some ideas. Who knows.

The masterful works of Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, and any other works set in the world of Arda (the world of which Middle-Earth is a part of) all belong to the Tolkien Estate. I am a simple fan with too much time on his hands.


The cart rolled along the road until my ears began to pick up the various sounds of a medium-sized town: the sound of wooden doors and gates opening and closing; the hooves of other horses walking along the road; shop owners shouting about how great their food or wares were; innkeepers welcoming people into their doors—or occasionally kicking out a troublemaker; fathers and mothers yelling instructions to their eldest children to do this or that; and laughter from young children who were playing beyond the town walls, where their parents forbade them from going.

But most of all, I smelled the food. Lamb, bacon, venison, pork, beef, and so many others that created an incredible cocktail of delightful aromas for my incredibly sensitive nose. Even the scent of fruit and vegetables smelled good. The smell of food—both cooked and raw—was beyond overpowering. My Instincts were practically screaming at me to seek out the odor of food, to leap from the cart and run to this nearby town and eat every last morsel I could find.

And here I was, wrapped up in the back, unable to move.

Didn't really seem fair.

The view of the trees above the man and I abruptly faded away, leaving me with only a view of the clear blue sky beyond the fireworks that covered me. We must have entered the clearings that typically formed between towns and forests, or merged with a larger road that went passed or into the town itself.

"Hail once again, Gandalf!" Unfamiliar, young male voice called out not long after the view of the trees faded. The voice was accompanied by the sound of trotting horse hooves and the clank of light armor.

The man who caught me turned his head to the side. "Hail again indeed, young Harold Charlton!"

The sound of the trotting horse became louder and louder until I could tell the other horse was now right alongside the cart. "What brings you back to Bree so soon? Did you lose your way, ya old pilgrim?" Asked the new male voice, laughing at his own joke, though not unpleasantly.

"Careful. I may be old, but I still know how much a walking stick to the head hurts," said the man who I now knew as Gandalf.

No mention of his sword or magic? So he didn't want these people to know what he was truly capable of, or did he just enjoy being seen as an average old man?

The younger man laughed again. "My father says you used to make the same threat to him when he was the town guard."

"I did. And more often than not I had to make good on the threat."

"He says that, too." The guard paused for a brief moment, and when he spoke again much of the merriment in his voice had been pushed aside, "I still need to get an answer to my question. I wasn't expecting to see you for another month at least, with that party you said you were going to—Old Bilbo out in the Shire, right?"

"Some unexpected business has come up that requires my attention. I may not be able to get to Old Bilbo's party like I had planned to."

"Business? On the road? What, did you forget to get him a gift? The memory of the old is quite unreliable, I hear."

A thin shadow whipped through the air next to Gandalf, and a loud thud came from the side of the cart with Harold, followed by the man himself crying out.

"The memory of the young tends to be very short; the memory of the old is usually long. And you'd do well to remember that, my young friend."

"That really hurt, you know! Ya can't just go 'round smacking people with that staff of yours! You'll kill someone one of these days. Ah..."

"I have yet to kill a man with this staff; and if I can help it, I never will. But it is very good tool for discipline, don't you think?"

"It works quite well, as I'm finding out."

Gandalf laughed, a sound that seemed not to fit with the grim, serious, and powerful man who I encountered in the forest. "Go to your father and ask him how he used to deal with his injuries after I corrected his behavior. I am quite sure he will be laughing for the rest of the day."

"Aye, I bet he will. Take care, Gandalf. And try not to hit too many people with that staff," Harold said, then he had his horse trot off in the direction he came from.

"Harold's family has lived here for twenty generations," Gandalf said when Harold left. Presumably, he was talking to me. "Since they arrived, there has been at least one Charlton among the town's guard—a group that once was made up of fifty soldiers. But as time has gone ever on, the town guard has diminished both in quality and quantity. There has not been more than a single guard in nearly a hundred years, and the position has always been taken by Harold's forebears. Do you know why that is, wyrm?"

Food, agreeable hours, and wielding the impressive power of the key to the outhouse.

"It is because of peace," Gandalf said, as if I'd spoken verbally. "Peace has reigned in these lands for over a thousand years. Within this sanctuary, peace has been unaffected by the horrors of the world. Not even the Witch-King of Angmar could breach this safe haven from the wilds of Middle-Earth."

'Middle-Earth'? The hell is that?

"But it has not been peaceful and innocent by chance," Gandalf went on, wheels of the cart continuing to clatter and creak. "It has been guarded by a Sentinel—a powerful Sentinel. Under the Sentinel's watch, these lands have prospered and grown merry. Uncorrupted. It is the last innocent place left in the world." He turned his head, and even though I couldn't see his eyes, I felt them on me—the two orbs of grey fire burning into me. "And I won't let you ruin it."

I instinctively tried to lay even lower in the cart, succeeding only in banging my long jaw against the wood. That voice. The power in it colored the very air. I could see it. Whoever Gandalf really was, he was far more powerful than even his display in the treeline led me to believe.

Gandalf went silent after that. I went back to being alone and tied up. And terrified of what Gandalf planned on doing to me.


The sun had nearly set by the time I felt the cart come to a stop. We'd left the aroma of the town long ago.

Gandalf got off the front of the cart and came back to where he'd tied me up. He spoke a word, and the ropes keeping me down released me.

My wings opened immediately, stretching for the first time in hours. My mind shouted at me to jump and fly away. To take to the air and get as far away from Gandalf as I possibly could. I would be considered a coward and soft-stomach, but retreating was better than death.

But then I saw Gandalf staring down at me. Staff in hand. Back straight. Eyes as hard as stone.

I would not be getting away from him. My wings settled against my sides again, though I still couldn't even grasp how I was moving them.

Gandalf made a noise that was between a scoff and a thoughtful hum. "You do not try to flee like other hatchlings would after gaining freedom. Curious…" He blinked, and picked me up by the neck. I did my best to resist the instinct to fight against his grip; it wouldn't help me.

The land had changed significantly since Gandalf had first taken me. Instead of a forest filled with pleasant smells and peaceful sounds, there were plains in all directions. Patches of trees or bushes were here and there, and in the distance I could see hills and outcrops of stone. Yellow, odorless grass was everywhere.

Gandalf walked into the odorless grass and dropped me to the ground about fifty yards from the road. He drew his simple and elegant sword again, and set it against the back of my neck.

I froze in terror. This was it. He was going to kill me. He was going to kill me! Oh, God. Oh, God. I don't want to die. I don't want to die. Don't let me die. Don't let him kill me! I don't want to die!

Gandalf raised his sword from my neck, and it was then that I knew he was preparing to bring it down for the killing blow. I wanted so desperately to run away, but my fear paralyzed me; and even if I could move, I didn't know how to walk on four legs. I was dead either way. I didn't want to die.

"Call her."

I didn't want to die.

"Call her."

I didn't want to die…

"Call her!"

The yell finally snapped me out of it. What? What was he asking?

I let out another pathetically small squeak as Gandalf picked me up by the neck again, bringing me up so I was staring into his ancient grey eyes. "Call her!"

I was too scared to do anything. I just stared at him, body shaking with terror.

Gandalf's eyes narrowed, busy eyebrows nearly coming together. He sheathed his sword and placed his now-free hand against my angular head. He closed his eyes then, and muttered words in a language I didn't understand.

My body twitched as something shot through me. It was cold yet calm. Soothing yet forceful. Powerful yet not evil. It was… Odd.

Without trying, I let out a strange sound that was half squeak and half whine. It was louder than any sound I'd made before, human or not. It echoed around the land, carrying over odorless grass and planes.

Gandalf dropped me to the ground unceremoniously after he'd forced the noise out of me. He then pressed a boot down on my tail. Not hard enough to bring a lot of pain, but more than enough to make it uncomfortable. He made no move to strike me with his sword.

I was confused by what he'd just done, but didn't think about it too much. As long as he wasn't killing me, I was fine. Could stand to be back in my human body, though. That would be nice.

Gandalf stood there with his sword in hand, staring out into the plains with the most intense look I'd ever seen in a person's eyes. He did not blink. Did not move. Did not so much as twitch. Such focus, such intensity, did not even seem possible for a mortal man.

What did that make Gandalf?

The sun had set completely by the time Gandalf finally moved. He blinked once, looked at the sky—right, then left—then finally down at me. His gaze was intense, but far less so than it had been a moment ago.

"Where is your mother?" He asked, grey eyes seeming to glow under his hood and long eyebrows. "Why does she ignore your cry? How did you get so close to the Shire without me seeing you or her?"

Was he really expecting me to answer?

Abruptly, Gandalf's boot rose from my tail. I instinctively moved it, pumping blood so it regained feeling. "Where is the mother?" This time, I knew the question wasn't directed to me, as he sheathed his word and moved to his cart. He returned with bundle of firewood and a pipe in hand.

He set up the firewood in a small clearing that was rockier than the ground around it, muttering to himself. He picked me up, supporting my entire body this time, and set me down next to him. He spoke a word in that ancient and powerful-smelling language I didn't understand, and a pulse went through the air, the firewood turning to flames instantly.

He uttered another word, and the ropes around me loosened. They remained tied around me, but not so tightly that I couldn't move. Then he looked down at me, grey eyes contemplative, as if I were a puzzle to be solved.

Well. This is an improvement from having a sword lying across my neck. The staring is unnerving and creepy, but I'll take staring over having my head cut off. At least he can't kill me with his eyes.

Probably.

Maybe.

… Hopefully.

Gandalf took out a small wooden container from his robes. Inside was some sort of dried plant. He put the plant into his pipe, and uttered the same word he used to light the firewood. A faint red glow was cast over his face as the pipe was lit, the light highlighting the many wrinkles of his weathered face. A second later, a very strong, sweet smell reached my sensitive nose.

"Do you fully understand my speech, hatchling?" He asked.

I gave the best nod I could manage with my long neck and strangely-shaped head. It felt like I'd given more of a shake no than a nod yes.

Gandalf hummed. "A nod. Not common among the dragon kind. I will take that as saying you do. Now listen to me: I am going to ask you questions that weigh on my mind. You are going to answer with a simple nod for yes, and shake for no. If you lie, I will know it."

There was no doubt in my mind that he would. I nodded again to show I understood.

"Good. Now, let us begin."

Gandalf spent the next few minutes asking me some pointless or odd questions. I did the best I could to master my dragon nod. It still didn't feel right.

Probably wasn't ever going to.

At last, Gandalf asked a question that mattered, "Do you seek to ruin these lands?"

Well, bit of an escalation. I shook my head quickly.

Gandalf leaned closer to me, eyes narrowed, a powerful fire burning within their irises. I felt a quiver of fear travel all the way down my spine at the look. "Are you telling me the truth?"

I nodded, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, for his eyes looked just as intimidating.

"Are you sure?"

I nodded again, this time making sure to nod slower.

The ancient man hummed and leaned back to his normal position. He took another draw from his pipe. When he let the smoke out, it formed into a perfect ring that floated across the ground and disappeared into the fields around us.

I didn't dare do anything as he sat there in silence. There was a certain tension in the air that made me think that if I did something wrong, I was dead. He would take out that sword of his and cut off my head. Or just talk in that strange language. Or maybe turn me to stone with his glare.

The instinctual part of me—the part that gave names to things I did not understand—told me Gandalf was more likely to turn me into a beatle and step on me.

Comforting.

"No sign of deceit in his eyes. No dragon is fully honest. What would you have me do?"

I tilted my head when I heard Gandalf mutter those words. The voice he used had been so soft it nearly had been drowned out by the gentle breeze. Had I heard him correctly?

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at me, and I immediately lowered my head. I heard him mutter a few more times, but he spoke in a language I did not understand. All I could do was sit there, waiting. Anxious to know what he was going to do. I couldn't stop shaking.

At last, Gandalf focused on me again. His eyes were as intense as ever, yet my instincts said he was not hostile. "We are going to talk of other things. More important ones, I feel." He picked up his staff and drew three marks in the dirt. One was to my left, one to my right, and the last one directly in front of me.

"I am going to ask more complicated questions—questions that, I feel, you cannot answer adequately at this time. But they require answers of some sort. Those symbols represent simple a response you can give to my questions. Touch the symbol to your right for the first option I present; the left symbol for the second. The one in the middle represents an answer that is more complicated, or that I need to ask a question in a different manner. Do you understand?"

I moved my head and tapped the symbol to my right with my snout. Damn, that felt weird.

"Very well. Let us begin." Gandalf created another smoke ring with his pipe, and as it floated across the field, he asked, "Do you know where you come from, or do you not?"

I tapped the symbol to my right.

"Have you come from the Grey Mountains, or the South?"

Man, I wish I could actually talk. I tapped the symbol to my left.

"The Far East, or the dragons' ancient home in the North?"

I tapped the middle symbol.

Gandalf's eyebrows lowered, and he created another smoke ring. "Now I question your honesty. No dragons have been seen in the West for thousands of years, nor have they ever been seen beyond it. You come from somewhere, you know where it is, yet you claim it is not in the North, the South, or the Far East."

I didn't move; he didn't ask me a question.

Gandalf eyed me for another moment, then blow another smoke ring, this time right into my face. He spoke a single word in that ancient, powerful-smelling language. My senses immediately became muted and slow. Oily. As if my brain wasn't working right. My Instincts shouted warnings to me, but they too were muted. Why were things starting to spin?

"Do you come from the Rohan, or from the Elves of Mirkwood?"

I moved and hit my snout against something, but I was more focused on the grass. Wow. It looks weird when it's spinning. Wait, was that rock moving on its own?

Gandalf huffed, sounding satisfied. "Motor functions are not yet hampered, and not blindly hitting one rune or the other. Good. You will have time to answer a few more questions honestly before you expire. Now, have you come from the North, or the South?"

I tapped the middle thingie. Why was the ground blue, now? Wasn't it supposed to be purple?

"Have you come from the Far East, or the dragons' ancient home?"

I tapped the middle thingie again. Ooo! Now the ground was a rainbow! How pretty.

Gandalf was giving me a really weird look for that. But I wasn't paying much attention.

I gazed around at the rainbow-ground for a little longer, then my eyes started to get heavy. Like really heavy. Too heavy to keep open.

A strange sense of embarrassment filled me just before a sudden, fevered sleep took me into oblivion.


In a rarity, Gandalf was not sure what to make of something in front of him. And it was sleeping soundly, the spell he placed on his smoke strong enough to keep the hatchling in a deep rest for as long as he deemed.

The small creature was proving to be an even larger than he thought upon their first encounter. He—for Gandalf could see the tiny hatchling's skeletal structure was that of a male—acted both as a hatchling and as an older, civil being. One moment, he attempted to be vicious as all dragons did, then in the next he was calm and fearful.

No dragon showed fear; it went against the power of their own blood.

And then there was his origins. Gandalf was not sure what to make of his insistence that he did not come from dragon lands. He did not wish to believe it, but the spell the Maiar used on the hatchling made it impossible for the hatchling to lie. The drake was being truthful. What dragon was truthful? Where was it that he came from?

"From whence comes the purpose of a person's life?"

Gandalf found it beyond coincidence this little dragon was so close to his own path. He looked the size of a new hatchling, mere days old. Yet no mother answered his cry.

The dragon had not been hatched here; he had been placed. Placed right in Gandalf's path. By who, Gandalf did not know. However, the Secret Fire was being suspiciously silent on the topic…

Nevertheless, the Maia could not leave the hatchling on his own, both for the sake of the dragon's survival, and Gandalf's own need for answers. Gandalf would need to take the dragon with him.

The Maia found it somewhat ironic that, on a day when he was to prepare for the birthday of a Hobbit famous—or infamous, within much of the Shire—for stealing from a dragon, Gandalf found one just off the road outside the Shire itself.

He suspected Bilbo would not quite find it as amusing.


Again, not really a long update, but it's something. I actually have an idea for what the next chapter will be when I get to it, so that will probably be a bit longer.

Thanks for reading, and feel free to tear this thing apart if you leave a review; I am well aware it's not exactly an original concept here in the Lord of Rings section of Fanfiction.

See you soon.