The Trouble with Dragons

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Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings or the characters and places associated with it. All credit belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien

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CH 2

Legolas’ boggled mind slowly regained consciousness, and as his senses began to settle, he became acutely aware of the cool stone ground he lay upon, finding it surprising that he should be warm. And alive, for that matter.

His eyes snapped open and quickly used his arms to prop his upper body, but immediately regretted the action as a wicked pain ensnared his left arm, and both appendages buckled beneath him with a groan, landing his back against the floor once again.

Panting heavily with bared teeth clenched tightly together, the Elf’s eyes quickly glanced around him. He was in a cave, apparently, laying in a bed of hay, and a small fire was lit by his side. The cave was dark, even with the fire, but several openings were visible in the rock-face, leading into dark tunnels. His eyes furrowed in confusion, and he looked over to his wounded arm to find it bandaged with leaves, causing his frown to deepen. The wound still bled, but the herbs had stemmed it immensely. This, of course, lead him to another revelation; he wore no shirt. His eyes quickly examined the wounds marring his chest and torso, which had also been dressed. The battle.

His fuddled brain quickly raced back to his memories of the fight. He had been struck down by a Warg, but not before killing the creature. After that it was difficult to discern, for he had become weak and dizzy from his injury. All he could recall was a great pair of claws baring down on him just before he lost consciousness.

The dragons! He was in a dragon’s cave, or was he? The great beasts of Morgoth were infamous for being dark, evil creatures, so then why would they be caring for him? Unless, of course, they required information from him, which he would not willingly give out, mind you, and planned on eating him afterwards.

These thoughts now weighing on his mind, he placed his wounded arm against his chest and struggled to his feet. He did not get far, however. Indeed, he barely took a single step before he heard a rumbling growl issue from within one of the tunnels.

A great shadow emerged, ember eyes glowing as it neared, followed closely by another, and another after that, until very soon Legolas found himself surrounded by the enormous monsters, staring up into glowing eyes of yellow and blue, and red.

He could not fight them, and he knew it. The previous battle had left him exhausted and sore. Though he would not bend to their will so easily, either. It was just when he prepared to defend himself when they began to speak.

“The Elf is finally awake, it seems,”

“Yes,” said the other. This one was no doubt female, “Mayhap we should inform our leader. He will wish to know, no doubt.”

“Aye,” agreed the third. “Though I don’t think he’ll like the idea of the immortal being up and about so soon after his injuries just being treated. Sit down, Elf,” Before Legolas even had the chance to react, a single talon hooked its self inside the back of his leggings, forcefully pulling him back down, flat on his backside, in the pile of hay with a grunt.

The Sylven’s facial expression was befuddled as he craned his head to gaze at the towering figures before him. It seemed as though they were actually concerned over his wellbeing, though he could not be certain.

“Who are you?” he demanded from his position on the floor.

“So he speaks!” the first dragon spoke again, “and with spunk, too. Worry not, two-legged, you shall learn of us and our ways soon enough. Rest assured that you are in no danger, and nothing ill will befall upon you whilst we protect you. We must first fetch our leader, however, and then all will be revealed.”

“Do not think to befuddle me with riddles and tricks,” the prince spat. “I’ve not the patience to deal with such foolishness. Whom is this leader you speak of, and where might he be?”

“See,” The third one said with a rumbling chuckle. “Even with such grievous hurts, he still possesses vigor. That is good.”

“This one is strong of heart and of mind,” the female replied, lowering her head enough to sniff at the Elf, to which, in turn, scowled. “An Elf of Mirkwood, this one is. You can smell the forest off him still, even through the blood and grime.”

“And sweat,” the first added, crinkling his snout in displeasure. “A strange sensation, I should say. Liquid secreting from one’s flesh… Odd creatures, mammals. He would do well for a swim in the lake.”

“Nay!” The she-dragon exclaimed, worriedly. “The water may aggravate the injuries and reopen his wounds. Besides, it is late autumn and he may freeze.”

“He’s an Elf,” The third one argued, “he cannot freeze.”

“Be not a fool,” replied the first, “Elves may be more resilient against the cold compared to Men, but they can still suffer the affects of it, after a while.”

“We should be grateful that he is not a Man,” the female commented. “Their scent is much more foul, and even if he—”

“Enough of this idiocy!” Legolas cried, quickly losing his patience. He was injured, half naked, and trapped in a cave with three obnoxious dragons arguing over the most inane things, and seemed to go to great length to avoid his every inquiry, his very presence, it seemed, when all he wanted was to return home. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now. “Please. Now, are you accomplices of Smaug or not?”

“Smaug?” The third dragon repeated. “Smaug the fire-drake? I should certainly say not! Good heavens, we are not even kin to him. We are Cold-drakes. Surely you know the difference?”

“Cold drakes… But their kind have not been seen in many years. Many believed that the orcs whom infest the Grey Mountains drove them into the cold wastes of the north.”

“Well, you see us plain as day, do you not?”

Legolas sighed. He was obviously not going to get a proper answer from these creatures. “Well, if you are not Fire-drakes, then how did you start a fire without kindling or flint?”

“Who is to say we have no flint?” replied the first.

“Then you have flint?” the Elf asked.

“No.”

He growled in frustration then, and brought up a hand to massage his temples.

“Now look what you’ve done,” the female growled accusingly at her companion. “You’ve made him sore again.”

“Nay, he is just hungry. His belly has been empty for at least two days, after all.” Those words spoken, the red-eyed beast padded over to a far corner of the cave, his large body shielding what he was retrieving from sight.

“Two days?” Legolas repeated, peering up. “Is that how long I have been here?”

“Two days and one half,” the she-dragon corrected. “You had us quite worried for a time. You lost much blood for one so small. We feared you might never wake.”

A large, folded leaf was dropped into the Elf’s lap, and he looked up at the dragon questioningly before tentatively unraveling the leafage. Two apples rested there, and he gazed up again, wearily.

“They’re not poisoned, if that’s what’s running through your mistrusting mind,” the third said. “They’re quite fresh,”

Picking up one of the offered apples and bringing it to his nose, Legolas took a suspicious sniff, and sensing nothing wrong, bit into the crisp fruit. It was when the first bit of food touched his tongue that the prince realized how hungry he truly was, and he quickly devoured them both.

“I am afraid we’re not accustomed to feeding two-leggeds,” the first continued as Legolas chewed. “I wasn’t quite certain what it was you ate. Though I know your kind are omnivores, and so I brought you these fruit. I hope they will suffice for now.”

“It is well,” the Elf replied, wrapping the core of the second apple back in the leaf, and setting it by the fire.

“That is good. More?”

“Oh, no, thank you.” Legolas countered, pressing his uninjured hand to his abdomen.

“As you wish.”

A moment of silence passed by as Legolas simply stared into the flames, his eyes seeming miles away at the moment before he glanced back up at the great beasts, a mask of true bewilderment on his handsome face. “Why are you doing this?”

“This?” the third cocked his head curiously.

“On that battlefield,” Legolas clarified. “You could have left me for dead, and yet you rescued me, and brought me here. Why?”

“We are not regular dragons, Master Elf,” the she-dragon replied after a moment. “We are… are rogues of our own kind. We do not believe in mindless slaughter and violence against other beings. It is wrong. Unfortunately, not all of our kin see things the way we do. Because we are different, we are outcasts.”

“Dragons have a bad name in the eyes of Elves, and Dwarves, and Men. We wish for no part of that visage.” Continued the third, “We are not the monsters everyone makes us out to be, not all of us, at least. And though we will never truly be accepted by the rest of the world, it would be worth all of it to appear different in the eyes of even a select few.”

The prince gazed up at the great beasts, awestruck. The tales he was told as a child, and his own experiences as well, had always told him that dragons were naught but monsters of power and cunning. All but one experience, at least. But even in their voices, these ones were quite the opposite from those evil in their fables. “Your intentions are very admirable,” he said. He was incapable of saying aught else.

“Yes,” the first agreed. “And we can only hope that you are one of the few that we may befriend.”

Legolas did not know what to say to that. He was speechless. He stared back into the flames, his mind desperately racing for something to say. Dragons were cunning and could not be trusted... could they?

“It was our leader,” said the female suddenly.

Legolas snapped his head up, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What?”

“The fire,” she simplified. “Our patriarch is part Fire-drake, though you would never recognize him as one. He looks as much a Cold-drake as any of us. Naturally, he is able to breathe fire.”

“And whom,” Legolas tempted again, his voice much more firm, “is your patriarch?”

“I am.”

Legolas’ head snapped to the side of the cave, and in the darkness of the blackened tunnel peered out two large, blue eyes. And as the figure slowly emerged, the Elven prince’s eyes grew wide as he recognized the beast for exactly whom he was.

“Naurhir.”

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“Now the least mighty [dragons]- yet they were very great beside the Men of those days- are cold as in the nature of snakes and serpents, and of them a many having wings go with the uttermost noise and speed…”

-- Turamber and the Foaloke in The History of Middle-earth vol. II The Book of Lost Tales II

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