2. A True Dragon- August
For Anglachel who wanted a story of Smaug pre-Hobbitt
He lifted his head, swinging it side to side and scenting the air. It was sharp on his nostrils, tingied with ice. But there was nothing unusual about that, here everything smelt of cold and ice. He sighed, feeling the fire in his chest ache and scorch, wanting to burn. Was this all he could be, a skulker, silent killer, sorry flash in the night.
He bared his teeth in a silent snarl of anger and unfairness. There should be more, there should be worship and gold. Was he not after all, the son of Glaurung and grandson of Ancalagon, the only one with such a pedigree, the hope of his kin. His egg had been missed when Melkor was turned out, perhaps mistaken for a rock. But some damage had been done never the less, for when he hatched his scales where malformed, leaving a bare patch over his heart. Yet in all other respects he was a magnificent heir, his size magnificent for his relatively small age, his scales a chain mail coat of honey-gold. A true dragon...
There was just one thing. He had no treasure, no lair, no fear was inspired by his name. Slowly he blinked, turning his head again. Then he stretched his wings, listening as the joints opened with satisfying cracks. Rhythmically he flapped them, bunching power in his back legs before springing like liquid gold into the sky. Airborne, thinking was easier, the cares of the land disappeared and he thought as a dragon should think.
The land lay out below him like a picture, such as he had heard some of the older dragons talk of when their Maiar halves were conscious. And on the edge of his vision he saw a great towering peak. It wasn't the Ered Luin, or any of the other peaks he had heard of. After a moment the name came to him.
Erebor. The Lonely Mountain.
Home to the Dwarf King... and, he chuckled slightly, his hoard of gold.
Ahhh, the sigh was long and luxurious. Slowly, almost idely, he turned his long body southwards and began to beat his wings in earnest. Now would the Dwarves learn to fear him, create a reputation that would be whispered in taverns with a glance over the shoulder.
And himself, well he would glory in that knowledge and stretch out on his bed of gold and craftsmanship... a true dragon.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.