Dilemmas with Dragons

TA 2770.

Thranduil narrowed his eyes.

His great elk Ingwion had spooked, hardly unseating him...but enough to have caught him unawares. The magnificent beast's legs danced upon the soil, cloven hooves thundering and wild eyes gone white. Wrenching the reins aside, Thranduil turned his mount towards the Ered Mithrin, seeking the foreign sound, wishfully praying that he had misheard. That his ears had failed him…

"My king?" Darothil inquired from his own mount.

Thranduil knew that the lieutenant had heard…that they all had. But in their doubt they turned to him, patiently awaiting his guidance. He stared adamantly at the Grey Mountains, the beating of his heart so loud that it seemed to echo within his armor. For an agonizing moment, there was no sound at all besides the horses' arrhythmic prancing, their unnerved nickering, the breathy flaring and widening of their nostrils. The skies remained still, the clouds undisturbed. A peaceful calm settled over the elves.

Then it happened again — an earthshattering roar.

"Ere flame and death that piercing scream is heard…" Thranduil whispered.

Darothil's face went pale. "Dragon."

The dense clouds above the Ered Mithrin suddenly split, and from the incision a horrible, hellfire-red serpent erupted forth, the edges of its wings touching the ends of the peak over which it flew. Ingwion stamped his hooves, trotting in place, ears pinning back towards the screaming horses. Thranduil's eyes widened at the bloodcurdling sight, and he felt as if he were in Beleriand once again.

With an upward slice of the Elvenking's hand, the elves of Mirkwood prepared for a grisly battle: the archers nocked their arrows with their bows of golden arcs; the swordsmen withdrew their blades, the sharp sound of steel scraping across the plains. Thranduil did not fully draw his sword; his hand remained hovering above the hilt, unbreakable gaze fixed on the skies. In harmonious military formation, Darothil and his unit stepped in front of the king, nerves sharp as their weapons.

The beast gave a terrible roar. It soared nearer and nearer, and the elves tensed, awaiting their glorious death by fire…but with a powerful beat of its wings, it ascended further into the sky and flew right over them. A swell of cold wind swept over the elves, unsteadying their feet. And, entirely unbothered by their display of aggression, the dragon continued on its path. Thranduil whipped around, observing its course with great trepidation and trying to understand its intention…then it suddenly dawned upon him:

"To Erebor…" he said, intrigued.

Darothil sheathed his sword. "If any beautiful and willing elleth asks, we engaged in a grand and gory battle from which we narrowly escaped," he remarked, still breathless despite his flippant tone. He was experienced enough to have met many a horrible foe, but a dragon was an entirely different story. "I'd hate to be where that beast plans on going — it had murder in its eyes."

Captain Tauriel and her bucking horse galloped into their company, the reins pulled nearly to her stomach. "Legolas leads a party southeast of here, my king," she said. "Do you think they're in danger?"

Thranduil was still looking to the south, mystified. "I should've known better than to expect that feebleminded king would listen to reason," he muttered. Just then registering Tauriel's words, he said airily, "They'll be fine. On the other hand, the dwarven kingdom…"

"What should we do?"

"The dragon has now gone," said Thranduil. He tilted his head, like the answer was obvious. "We needn't do anything."

"Well, should we not go to Erebor's aid?" she asked, beginning to sound a little impatient.

Thranduil did want to see the fate of Erebor, at the very least; it had been less than a few hours since he and his company departed from the mountain, and he was feeling shamefully spiteful about the whole situation. He had done his best to pay respects to the king under the mountain, discreetly hoping he might gain some favor and have his precious heirlooms returned — but the idiot had turned him away. Now, Thranduil thought with an equally shameful sense of amusement, Thrór would be served his dues.

The white gems of Lasgalen, rightfully his and stolen by those — those —

A shudder ran through him, interrupting his profane thoughts. He looked to the distance, from where they had just came. The elves waited patiently.

"We'll ride east and meet Legolas," he commanded, avoiding Tauriel's mildly pleased face. "Darothil, take two others to scout the surrounding area. Ensure that the beast has not changed his course for a…second helping." After a moment of pause, he added, "Tauriel, you go as well."

"Crazy elleth," Darothil muttered, "I'll never sail for the Undying Lands at this rate."

But nonetheless, his mount stormed ahead. Thranduil uneasily watched them cross the plains until they vanished beyond the hills. He could already see the rise of dusky smoke upon the horizon. He urged Ingwion forward, but the mounts weren't pleased about heading towards the smell…a stench, Thranduil had the misfortune, of knowing all too well. They pranced and resisted the entire way.

It was just before twilight when he heard the screams — human, dwarven, and dragon — accompanied by a heat uncharacteristic for this late in the summer. Darothil came over the crest of the hill, his face paler than Thranduil had ever seen; his mount galloped down, half-bucking and nostrils flaring, meeting the king just before they crossed the threshold.

Thranduil lifted his hand. "No need to share. I know already what lies ahead. Come. Let us see how the history of Erebor is rewritten today."

Tauriel had dismounted, one hand covering her mouth and the other steadying herself by clutching onto her horse's mane. She silently watched the chaos unfurling in the valley below. Thranduil rode to meet her. With malicious satisfaction, he hoped that she had learned her lesson: that this was the fate awaiting anyone who dared to meet a dragon…or have the unfortunate chance of being in the path of one.

The destruction was, as expected, immeasurable. It was quite the sight to behold…a harrowing and unpleasant one, of course, but memorable nonetheless. The dragon had wasted little time and had ravaged most of Dale…towers of stone crumbled with men still at their watch; women and children ran for their lives, wailing; entire streets were swept up in a storms of flame that devoured everything before them; and all that seemed to remain, where there were once entire buildings and homes, was dusty rubble.

"How dreadful," Tauriel whispered, tears in her eyes.

"Now you see for yourself — exactly how much our 'aid' would accomplish."

Thranduil presumed the dragon, nowhere to be seen, had already made its way through the gates of Erebor. On cue, a tower of fire exploded upwards from the interior of the fortress, smashing windows with walls of red. The statues guarding the front doors, once so large and imposing, were collapsing before their eyes. Dwarves ran across the main bridge, bloodied and smoke-stained, some limping like wounded animals…others leapt from the windows of the mountain, hoping to aim for the water…

The treasure was most certainly decreed the dragon's plunder by now. There would be nothing to salvage.

Nothing at all.

Thranduil steeled his eyes, sinking his emotions. I apologize, meleth nîn, he thought morosely, for I have dishonored you, and now your beautiful gems will remain in the tomb of Erebor. A fitting fate, I suppose, but no less heartbreaking.

With a dismal sigh, he turned around. "I've seen enough."

Tauriel watched him leave, mouth agape. "Where are you going?"

"There's nothing we can do for them," he said shortly. "We ride home. Immediately."

"How is that?" The tips of Tauriel's ears were turning red. "The people of Erebor require shelter, food and drink…sustenance of which we have plenty. You would abandon their glorious kingdom to die by the elements? They've lost everything, and worst of all, they have nowhere ahead to look to. Can you not be humbled and sympathize with the struggles of losing your home…your loved ones? Are you even listening?!"

She rode her horse ahead and violently jerked its body around, so that Thranduil was forced to stop. He clenched his jaw.

"Get out of my way, Tauriel. You're testing my patience."

"My lord, please—"

"Let Thrór and his people pay the price for his gluttony. Gold and jewels he hoarded — endless mountains of them — and I warned him, I truly did, that envious opposition would come. It was inevitable. Perhaps this is divine retribution. My only regret is not forcefully taking the white gems of Lasgalen when I had the chance. I stand by my decision. Now move."

Tauriel's eyes held bitter animosity. "I hoped you would have compassion. I thought you would understand."

"I know better than most what it means to have your home reoccupied by terrible monsters," Thranduil said furiously. Tauriel was still so young; she had not been there at the loss of Amon Lanc, when the Greenwood had been robbed from his people. "And that's why we're returning home at once. For many an Age, I have protected my people under all circumstance. We've paid for sanctuary through blood. Never again will we hearken to tales of suffering — for a dragon!"

A soft sob escaped Tauriel. "How can you be so cruel? How is it possible?" She pointed an accusing finger at him; completely incensed, he opened his mouth to retaliate, but she interjected angrily: "I think perhaps you have never loved anything. I cannot think of any other reason that would warrant such despicable treatment."

As Elvenking, Thranduil had undergone many occasions where the limits of his patience were tested, particularly with Legolas as a young boy…and he was quite good at composing himself, even through the most unfavorable conditions. He had long ago learned the art of concealing his emotions, instead choosing a mask of obscurity. Unfortunately, eyes had a nasty habit of revealing secrets. Especially his. He couldn't help it — he loved staring at things, almost tasting the experience…but when he looked at people, they had all the time in the world to decode his own mysteries.

Thranduil despised it.

Before Tauriel had realized it, Thranduil's blade was at her throat. She matched his glare with equal outrage.

"You think I have never loved?" he asked softly. "That's really what you believe — that before my precious Legolas, there must have been no elleth special enough to conquer my heart? Stop being unreasonable. It is love that has made me this way."

"Love which you lost," she said, more sadly than anything now, "and now your heart has grown cold and selfish. You will wander in an endless sea of sorrow, my king, should you never feel it again."

"Love is for one," said Thranduil, "and loss, like war, is for many. I loved once, but I lose her again every day. Over and over. She escapes me like a flower in the wind. For as long as I continue to lose her, there can never be — will never be — another. Let it rest, Tauriel. I envy that you still have yet to love. And do not pity me. The will of the Valar has played itself out already. Nothing can happen to me which has not already. Not even love."

x

TA 2940, April 23rd.

The glacial winds of Forochel mercilessly beat down against Aínwar Firekeeper.

Out of breath, she waded through the thickening snow. Despite the lengthening spring days, the nighttime air remained frigid as ever, and it had been over a fortnight since she bathed in dragonfire. The fires she made on her own with flint and steel kept her comfortable, but they warmed only the surface of her flesh, failing to reach her heart.

A shadow passed over her head; just by the distinctive rumble thundering above, she knew it was Baldreg. Damn, he had beaten her again. She had even made sure to depart for the summit a few hours earlier than usual. Swearing, she labored forward. When she was younger — only in her first century or two of life — she would bitterly curse her lack of wings, seeing how effortless it was for the wild drakes to reach these altitudes.

But now, swiftly approaching her four hundredth year, she never wasted her hot breath on such nonsensical pessimism. And even though this hike took days, it was always worth it. At the top of these snowcapped hills, what the dragons named Dùn Ga'thuum, she could see the distant peaks of Ered Mithrin, the Grey Mountains; better, she could see the aurora, even feel like she could touch it. On her most difficult days as Firekeeper, she would retreat to this exact place with enough supplies to last a month, sit with a hot drink between her hands, and think.

And think long and hard, she needed to.

The energy in the Northern Waste had been rather…peculiar, as of late. Aínwar could see it in the dragons' flight patterns. The winds had shifted, resulting in erratic temperatures and unpredictable weather. They were agitated too, quick to resort to tantrums of fire and tail-lashing. And the stories they told their hatchlings were not the same she had heard as a young girl, with alarming emphasis on the Black and how the mighty dragon had smothered Beleriand with his smoke. She could have sworn it sounded like admiration. Respect for a monstrous murderer.

The dragons she had so steadfastly watched during her centuries as Firekeeper…they were changing.

Sometimes, she wished she had the Matron Mother to confide in. Very infrequently did she think of those days, of the times she would get smacked on the ankles with a cane, or roused before dawn to fetch herbs in the most random and dangerous of places. Her first thirty years of life, before the Duwín-ma brew bestowed her immortality, were nothing but a murky dream now. Though, occasionally, she did recall the visions she had experienced…something about blue eyes…

The rocks below her feet rumbled — Baldreg was waiting, and being cheeky about it too. She grinned, quickening her pace and thinking no more of eyes and adolescence.

Aínwar reached the summit with a gasp. Between the heat pooling beneath her furs and her dragonkind heart, she was positively drowning in sweat. Finger by finger, she removed her gloves, then dipped her hands into the snow. She sighed, relieved.

Firekeeper, said Baldreg, reminding her of her manners. He was not a snobbish dragon, but he did like being acknowledged.

"Hold your horses, drake. I wore too many furs, and now I must cool down."

Hmph, Baldreg rumbled, your mother had that same brazen attitude. Same disrespect, different Age.

Aínwar suppressed a smile. "I would have no need for these furs if someone made it a priority to stop by more often," she said. "It has been weeks since my last firebath. My heart has grown cold. First you deny me fire, then you ask me to climb Dùn Ga'thuum. I'm beginning to suspect that a sudden death by mysterious circumstances is upon me."

Baldreg found this very funny; the entire mountain seemed to tremble beneath his hearty chuckling, hot steam exhaling from between his teeth and plumes of snow falling from his ridged back. We will bathe you with the ceremonial Tù'gathar before long, Firekeeper. Come stand by my body until then. I will warm you better than those furs.

"Tarlaeth and Rulzhag?"

Arriving shortly.

Aínwar pressed her hand to his snout, letting his scorching breath wash over her; with gratitude, she affectionately dusted the powdery snow from the green scales upon his nose. Though she was their Firekeeper and they her kin to protect, she did not see them often and missed them dearly in their absence. Certain dragons she congregated with more than others — Baldreg and Tarlaeth mostly, for they resided close to the Ered Mithrin and brought much information about the happenings of Middle Earth.

Dragons were surreptitious creatures, but Aínwar still constantly felt their presence. Even after all of these years serving as their warden-of-sorts, she recognized the great privilege of knowing these beasts existed at all.

Unfortunately for her, dragons were also deeply misunderstood. The violent history between themselves and Middle Earth folk made matters complicated enough, but the situation had escalated to a dangerous peak after Smaug had left the waste, devastating the kingdom of Erebor in his wake. His presence in the Lonely Mountain had been a constant source of anxiety for Aínwar. She feared both for his life and for what he might do if disturbed — he had always been a reckless, greedy drake, who had no interest in remaining in the waste should he have the chance to acquire some wealth.

And to eat some terrified men in the process… Aínwar thought grimly.

In fact, Smaug was the very reason the dragons were meeting her tonight.

Aínwar wasn't sure how much time before Tarlaeth and Rulzhag arrived. Seconds passed differently in the realm of immortality, a change she had noticed shortly after drinking the Duwín-ma. The first fifty years went slowly. She was bored all the time, and even for a period between one-hundred and two-hundred, she always felt like she was waiting around to die. Yet death never arrived…she never aged, and she remained strong and healthy as ever. If anything, she certainly felt a little wiser. Perhaps. But having heard that there were Middle Earth folk who considered 397 years to be a mere breadth in the grand scheme of their lives, she wasn't sure if she had learned anything at all.

Eventually, Tarlaeth and Rulzhag came. Aínwar saw the stars darken in the shadow of their bodies before she heard them; they smoothly dipped around a peak far in the distance, the aurora shining behind the translucent membranes of their wings. Anyone else would have stumbled and fallen halfway down the mountain at the tremors of their landing, but Aínwar had legs like roots. She had taken a precarious tumble one too many times to not have learned her lesson…

"Tarlaeth," she said, bowing. "Rulzhag."

So THEY get a curtsy, then? said Baldreg scornfully.

Greetings, small one, said Tarlaeth, the female of the trio, nudging Aínwar most affectionately. In her ancient eyes, there was maternal nurturing; she had watched over Aínwar when she was born and throughout her first thirty years of mortality, and had continued to do so since then.

Before we continue, let us acknowledge the old ways… rumbled Rulzhag, and gift our Firekeeper with the Tù'gathar, to last her until we meet again, for she protects the soul of the Black and keeps Zenta'ganna's fire ablaze.

The dragons widened their maws and let gentle fire stream like water from their throats. Breathing in their flames like air, she felt it rejuvenate her, her heart and soul igniting like flint on stone. She inhaled deeply, abandoning her furs and coats until she stood in nothing but her gold-embroidered tunic, the same one she had worn during her Duwín-ma ceremony. Dragons' fire could keep her warm for weeks, and this was unquestionably her favorite part about meeting with them.

"Now I must carry all these cloaks down myself," she said, smiling.

Tarlaeth bared her teeth in a reptilian smile. We appreciate the levity, Aínwar, she said, casting her eyes towards the others, but you know why we asked you to meet here.

Aínwar sighed. "Smaug."

Your mother failed to discipline him when she had the opportunity, said Baldreg. We are very sorry that you had to inherit this problem, Firekeeper. There were many centuries of disgracious behavior from Smaug leading up to his overtaking of Erebor — and none of his behavior was corrected. And no matter how much we sympathize with his desire for treasure, we prioritize the importance of peace. He has been allowed to run rampant throughout Middle Earth for far too long.

Tarlaeth's nostrils flared. Rulzhag has heard rumors upon the wind…that there is a dwarven prince of Erebor, who plans to exact revenge and take back the wealth of his kingdom. Us three do not personally care for Smaug's fate; however…

"They cannot meant to slay him," Aínwar said. "It's certain death."

Indeed.

You have campaigned for us more than any other Firekeeper, Aínwar, said Baldreg. With your help, it is possible that one day, Middle Earth may share its mountains with us. But the scales have not yet been balanced; the hatred running through the dwarves of Erebor, and all who witnessed his destruction, is still too fresh. Too deep. Should the folk of Middle Earth succeed in their quest, it would be a declaration of war.

Aínwar exhaled sharply. A small thought hovered in her subconscious, one that had been nagging her for years. "I'm aware," she began hesitantly, "that there are dragons who…disagree with my presence. That—" Perhaps she was leaping to conclusions with this final guess, but… "—that they would rather be led by a fellow dragon themselves. A mighty and powerful one."

Ancalagon, the dragons hissed, the Black.

"I would never let Zenta'ganna's fire die," she said, tightening her jaw. "Ancalagon will remain where he belongs."

We do not doubt your conviction to protect Zenta'ganna's sacrifice, said Tarlaeth. She sat back on her haunches, raising her huge body into the air. And, though immortal you are, you are one small inconvenience in the path of a dragon determined to wreak havoc. Things have remained as they have been since the First Age, but over time, the conditions have become precarious. The Cold-drakes were an exception. Smaug is a challenge. Encouragement.

"Encouragement to…" Aínwar started, her heart sinking. "…to do as he did."

It was a truth she had long suspected. Now, it seemed an inevitable future.

"Of course you've noticed it," she said quietly. "The change in the winds. How the northern waste, already so used to a quiet like death, seems to die further." In an alarmingly delayed fashion, the obvious truth the dragons had been prodding her with came to the forefront of her mind. "If I'm dead and with no successor, Ancalagon could…he could—"

Yes, little one, Rulzhag rumbled. And ancient darkness, an unspeakable evil, would fall upon the mountains once more. As it did Thangorodrim.

Aínwar's breath quickened. "I cannot stay here."

Not for long.

"I'm the only intermediary between the dragons and Middle Earth," she further realized. "Nobody else can warn them…but me."

Undoubtedly.

For so long, Aínwar had buried memories of the night she drank the Duwín-ma. Nearly four hundred years past, she had almost forgotten the Matron Mother and the chilling look in her eyes…but now, the images were all flooding back, particularly the words said to her:

When your mother's mother drank the brew, her visions were filled with strife and anguish. She saw endless war. The return of a shadow over the land. Death. It has been a thousand years, and still her dreams have not yet come to pass.

Your mother…she saw you.

She remembered the tower of fire from her dream, running towards it…and the man who kissed her with such... — Come now, Aínwar! There are more urgent matters at hand, she thought, ashamed of herself. But what else? What more could she recall from the hallucination that could help her now? Despite drawing a complete blank, she knew that she had no other path ahead of her.

And what a treacherous one it was.

But she was Aínwar Firekeeper. She had accepted this responsibility, and with great honor, the moment the Duwín-ma passed her lips. No, she realized…she had never had the choice. Her fate had been sealed from birth — all that remained was to decide how she would rise to meet it.

And rise, she would. She refused to face her destiny any other way.

TBC