Chapter Text
Dwarves are not meant to care for dragons.
From the very beginning, from the very first dragon, there has been enmity between them, for the battle between Glaurung the Golden and Azaghâl and his kin was still told among Dwarflings to this day, two Ages later. For when the bows of Elves failed and the swords of Men shattered and all had fallen to the dragon’s rage, only the Dwarves had stood true, helm and axe and shield intact. And from that day, dragons and Dwarves have been enemies and there could be no peace between them - Dwarves will root out dragon nests wherever they might find them, for inevitably dragons will come to steal their homes from them.
So why then was Gimli so attached to this dragon?
Because he seems to me not very much a dragon at all.
His kin would be ashamed of him. Living with a dragon of all things. Well, at least it was not an Elf, he thought to himself. A dragon is one thing, an Elf was quite another. Though, it might be preferable at the moment, an Elf he could speak to, plan with, and work with to escape this cavern. This last month of being trapped here had left Gimli longing for any kind of speech at all, so much so that he wondered if he had hallucinated Uslukh’s speech.
Gimli stared at the sleeping form of Uslukh before him, watching the pale yellow scales glimmer in the faint sunlight, almost if they could draw in their warmth and heal the terrible wounds the silver dragon had left.
And that was another thing unheard of: two dragons fighting one another. In all the stories, they had all served the same Master, and no dragon had ever turned on their own kind. But Uslukh had reacted with an almost territorial fervour, and the senseless instincts of the young who do not yet know any better.
The dragon had slept ever since his return and there was little that Gimli could do to ease his pain. Instead, he had busied himself with putting their cavern back to rights - and when had it become their cavern, and not just Uslukh’s? When had they become a they at all? He needed to get home, not waste his time fretting about a wounded dragon.
In truth, he should put Uslukh out of his misery now. Better that than when he was grown and raining fire down upon helpless towns. For all that he might be young and clumsy now, soon he would grow, his scales would harden to steel and his fire would be hotter than the greatest forge. And even if he did not, there was a chance his wounds would become infected and condemn him to a long lingering death. Or that his wings would not heal, and he would be grounded for the rest of his years—
One slitted aquamarine eye stared back at him.
Gimli hated himself for the surge of relief in his chest. He covered it with a disdainful sniff. “You are awake then.”
“I am.”
Well. He had not been expecting that.
*.*.*.*
Uslukh’s speech was surprisingly limited, like one who had learned a language long ago and found years later that the words did not spring so easily to mind anymore. He spoke only when pressed, and even then reluctantly. He would give no information without thinking about it for several long (and maddening) minutes and even then often ceased speaking halfway though a sentence, only to begin it again sometimes days later.
Gimli wondered if he had any sense of time at all.
He still slept much, hissed and growled as he had ever done, but the addition of albeit-limited speech had done a great deal to improving Gimli’s mood. Even if he was still stuck in what was essentially a hole, with a beast with the temperament of an old cat.
“Shift your wing, you great lump,” Gimli grumbled, breathless as he shoved the boulder along the floor.
“Why?” came Uslukh’s response. Why was his favourite word, and one Gimli was fast becoming tired of.
“Else I will roll this boulder over your wing - and you will not thank me for that.”
A dramatic huff and a sigh (which was itself accompanied by a curl of smoke), and the wing was swept neatly back onto Uslukh’s back.
“Thank you, Uslukh.”
“Not Uslukh.”
“You mentioned that before.” Gimli grunted, giving the boulder another shove. It was proving a difficult rock to budge, but it did them no good to have a boulder sitting in the middle of their only supply of clean water. He was, however, discovering that wet rocks were, in fact, much harder to move than dry ones. He had slipped and fallen at least three times already, and was soaked to the bone. “What is your name then?”
Silence met his question, as it always did whenever he asked a more personal question. It was about as much as Gimli expected these days. “Uslukh it is then.”
Uslukh gave a disgruntled hiss at that and swung his head up from where it had been resting on his front talons. Gimli ignored his little tantrum in favour of continuing to drive his shoulder into the rock, growling as his boots slipped in the mud. If he could just shift this rock, it would make a good ledge support, and from there he could gain access to some of the upper levels of the cavern—
A set of massive claws filled his vision, gleaming ivory and deadly sharp. Gimli gave a yelp and lurched back, awkwardly, for he was waist deep in water, and then slipped, disappearing beneath the surface. He flailed for a moment, splashing and coughing as he emerged.
“Durin’s beard.” He spat out another mouthful of water as the dragon blinked sheepishly at him from around the boulder. “You might have warned me. You could have clawed my face off!”
When no apology was forthcoming, Gimli waded uncomfortably out of the pool. “Well. I am cleaner at any rate.” Uslukh gave an amused snort, and with odd daintiness, clawed the rock out of the water.
Gimli watched him for a moment, but it seemed that Uslukh was in no great pain at his exertions, for all it had only been a week since his return.
“Since you’ve decided to be useful at last,” Gimli announced, trying to hide his awkward affection for the dragon. “You can roll that boulder over here then.”
*.*.*.*
“Why?”
Gimli smothered a sigh. “You might be content to eat grubs all day, but I am not. Can you help me move these rocks or not? They are much too heavy for me to move alone.”
The dragon eyed the boulders, a keen analytical gleam in those faceted depths. It was disconcerting sometimes, Gimli thought, to see the raw intelligence in much of Uslukh’s mannerisms and behaviours, which was contradicted by the simplicity of his speech. There were moments when Gimli wondered what Uslukh was not saying.
They were standing now in the little cave that Gimli had originally fallen into - or Gimli was, Uslukh was much too large and long, and so had only wedged himself through the tunnel as far as he could, up to his wings. No doubt that the sight of his rear end wedged into the tunnel entrance was a hilarious sight, but Gimli still felt a small stirring of fear at the sight of those massive talons crowded up close with him.
“I think.” Uslukh paused, stretching one talon forward and snagging the edge of a boulder. “I try.” He looked at Gimli and then released the boulder. Anxiety whirled in his eyes, muddying the bright blue.
Without a word, the dragon scooped Gimli with his talons, catching him between his two forelegs and began to shuffle backwards through the tunnel. Gimli’s scream caught in his throat along with his heart, which seemed to be trying to outrace a horse on its own. Once they were both free of the tunnel, Uslukh released him, and Gimli backed up, panting.
Uslukh lowered his head to Gimli’s level, watching him. There was no malice there, but a surprising gentleness.
“I will not hurt.”
“Then next time, ask!” Gimli’s tone was harsher than he intended, rough with fear. He hoped he was not shaking. The last thing he needed to do was show fear to a dragon. “I am not some prey you can just drag around as and when you please!”
Uslukh extended his neck, nudging Gimli gently with his nose, as a cat might. “Stay.”
And then, he turned and disappeared back into the tunnel, wriggling uncomfortably and making distinct grumbling sounds.
Gimli watched him, willing his heart to slow, even as he heard the loud rumbles of boulders crashing and Uslukh’s snaps of annoyance and the scrapes of his talons. It sounded as if shifting the remaining boulders had caused the pile to tumble apart. If Gimli had remained in the tiny chamber when they had all come crashing down, he might have been seriously hurt, or even killed.
The thought still did not make him feel any better.
*.*.*.*
“Aha!” Gimli’s triumphant cry woke Uslukh from his nap by the tunnel’s entrance. The dragon gave a snort and went to close his eyes again as Gimli came racing out from the tunnel, holding aloft a tattered and mostly crushed pack. Gimli grinned up at the very unimpressed Uslukh, his excitement rather infectious.
“Aha?” Uslukh echoed, unable to help his own curiosity as he sniffed the pack. “Why?”
“Because I have been looking for this since I landed in this Mahal-forsaken hole,” Gimli replied, opening up the pack eagerly. Many of the gifts inside were broken - shattered into little pieces, or bent beyond repair. Some of the letters looked mostly intact, if a bit crumpled. But most importantly, what he truly wanted was still there - food.
Nothing particularly exciting, just the standard fare for a travelling dwarf: rations of dried meat, biscuit wafers, nothing perishable. But to Gimli, who had lived on bugs and grubs and dragon-fired birds for over a month, it was all he could do to not eat everything at once. He had a month’s worth of rations here, if he was careful. He could be careful, he was sure.
“Food?” Uslukh asked. “Meat?”
Not for you, Gimli thought, but aloud instead said: “Alas, it is Dwarven food. Not nearly enough for a dragon.” He eyed Uslukh cautiously, looking at the scars that scored through scale and hide. “If you wish for meat, why don’t you go hunt?”
The dragon’s eyes darkened and he made a low humming sound, not quite a growl. That baleful gaze turned upon the sky-hole. “Aglarebon.”
Gimli looked at him in bewilderment, but no explanation seemed to be forthcoming. Wisps of smoke curled from the dragon’s jaws (he did, on occasion, flame things when he got too excited or upset) and Gimli placed a hand, tentatively, on Uslukh’s flank. Uslukh flicked his tattered ear in acknowledgment.
A fierce smothering anger washed over Gimli, a slow-burning rage that was not his own, and with it came a rapid series of images that flashed through his minds eye. A sheen of silver scales, the thundering challenge of an intruder, green eyes whirling with contempt, talons rending, teeth biting, the clash of dragon on dragon.
He cried out, his arms raising of their own accord to shield himself from a gout of fire that is not real. And then Uslukh was nosing him, and made a low crooning sound of distress.
“Sorry,” the thought whispered through Gimli’s mind, ringing with anxiety. “Sorry.”
“I am all right,” Gimli whispered back through panting breaths. He leaned against the dragon’s snout, overwhelmed by what he had just experienced. “I am not hurt.”
But when he closed his eyes, he could still see the vivid green eyes of Aglarebon, the silver dragon, mocking him. Was he up there still, watching them? Was that why Uslukh could not leave?
Aglarebon, Gimli thought, turning the name over in his mind again and again. The Glorious One.
*.*.*.*
It was many more days before Gimli plucked up the courage to ask the question that had been bothering him. He sat upon a crumbled pillar, chewing thoughtfully on a strip of jerky and enjoying the gentle warmth of a stream of sunlight. Uslukh was nearby, drowsing in the sun, his scales gleaming to gold. He knew that the dragon was not yet truly asleep, though how he knew he could not be entirely certain of. It was just a feeling, a shifting nebulous idea in the back of his mind that he could not entirely grasp.
“Uslukh?”
One ear swivelled towards him and Gimli felt something shift in his own mind too - a dazed sort of wakefulness. Uslukh gave a low sleepy croon, part annoyance, part query.
“Who taught you Khuzdul?” It had taken him some time to catch on, partly he reasoned, due to the strange way that Uslukh communicated. But when the dragon’s thoughts reached out to his own mind, the words that passed to him were those of the Dwarves tongue, which no Dwarf would ever teach to any not of their own kind. That a dragon knew and understood it well enough to speak even a little was bizarre beyond belief.
Uslukh shifted, a great rattling of his scales as he stretched and yawned. One bright eye opened and stared piercingly at Gimli. “You did.”
“I have not!” This was entirely true. Like any other Dwarf, he had had it drilled into him constantly that he must speak Westron around non-Dwarves, and he had held to that habit, even when he had assumed that the dragon had no way of understanding either tongue. The only exception to this was the name he had given the dragon: Uslukh.
“Dragon.” Uslukh declared, finishing Gimli’s thought. “Here, Khuzdul.”
That statement took a little puzzling out. “Here?” he said aloud. Uslukh did not respond, watching him with a childish mischievousness, until there was the slow ponderous realisation. “In my mind. You have been learning words from my mind!”
Uslukh gave another lazy yawn. “Yes. Words. Feelings. Shape of thought.”
There was no response to this that Gimli could give. He let the conversation drop and thought for a while, but all the warmth seemed to have gone out of the sun. Uslukh was aware of his mind, but could he hear all of Gimli’s thoughts? Did he know all of his secrets, his memories? That was a frightening idea.
But the more he thought on it, the more he became aware of the turnings of his own mind, and quested after that strange knowing that remained, thus far, mostly in the background of his mind. Now he chased after it, and in his mind’s eye, saw it become solid and clear: like a shining thread of bronze and green entwined. He grasped hold of the thread and pulled—
And with a jolt, he was on the ground, looking up at the Dwarf on the pillar, muscles tensed to spring should he fall; and his belly cramped with the lack of food, urging him to sleep until meat becomes readily available again; and the sun is warm on his scales—
Go back, Akrâgkharm.
Then he is the Dwarf again, Gimli, he told himself firmly, though for several frightening moments he doubted that steady thought.
“What was that?” he thought, unable to trust the words to the open air. That would make the experience too real.
Amusement rolled through him, not his own, followed by a burning sense of curiosity. “It was us, Akrâgkharm. Bond-brother. Finally, you open your mind to me.”
*.*.*.*
Gimli woke with a pounding headache, gritty eyes and a distinct feeling rather like he’d been dragged backwards down a mountain. He opened heavy eyes and wondered if perhaps he was still dreaming; it would certainly explain why the sky had turned yellow.
He was also far too warm. It shouldn’t be so warm; summer was passing, the days should be getting cooler, not warmer. The rock he was leaning against was warm too. And, perhaps most oddly of all, he could hear drums.
He blinked, slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the dim yellow-tinged light. The realisation reached him slowly. He was not looking at the sky at all, but the inside of Uslukh’s wing. The rock he was leaning against was not rock at all, but the rough scales of Uslukh’s flank.
Gimli groaned, swiping a shaking hand across his eyes. Well that certainly explained why he was so hot - Uslukh was like a furnace at the best of times, and trapped beneath his wing, the air could not flow properly and bring in the fresh cooler air.
The tip of the wing lifted slightly, and Gimli almost whimpered in relief as a breeze swept in, which was then promptly ruined as Uslukh’s snout curled into the gap, filling the space with a sulphurous scent. The head of the dragon was wet (which, Gimli thought with great effort, explained the drumming sound - not drums at all, but raindrops on the membrane of the wing), but his eyes were awhirl with anxiety.
“How did I—?” Gimli began to ask, and broke off, his voice rasping. He remembered going to sleep, but he had certainly not fallen asleep against Uslukh.
Uslukh was silent for a moment, and then gave a short growl, as he often did when he could not think of the words to explain his more complex thoughts.
“You slept,” the dragon’s thoughts felt as slow and muddled as Gimli’s own, but they still came through clear and true. “Three lights and darks. The rain came.” Then came an image through Uslukh’s eyes, coloured with his worry as he curled up around the fever-hot Dwarf, uncertain of how to help beyond keeping him dry.
Gimli absorbed all this in silence, and patted the dragon’s flank gratefully. He had not even noticed his own fever when he’d gone to sleep - he had felt more tired than usual perhaps, but not ill. But according to Uslukh, he had slept for nearly three days.
That exhaustion still lingered, deep in his bones. He needed more rest and water. How he wished he was back in Erebor, where the healers could take care of him.
“You sleep,” Uslukh said again. “Rest. I will keep you safe.”
There was no lie in the timbre of the dragon’s thoughts. How strange it was that he believed him! How strange that their roles were now reversed, but Uslukh could do no more to help him than he had been able to when Uslukh had been injured.
“If I should perish,” Gimli mumbled, his eyes sliding closed of their own volition. “Please do not eat me.”
*.*.*.*
Fever dreams were nothing new to Gimli, but these were the strangest he had ever encountered. Throughout his sickness, three dreams he could remember experiencing, each more bizarre than the last.
In the first, he dreamed of dragons, which in hindsight was hardly unusual given his circumstances. In the dream, he rode on the back of Uslukh, exulting in the speed and power of the dragon beneath him. The wind whipped at his beard and stung at his eyes, but he did not care. A war cry burst from his throat as they descended on the battle below - Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu! - and behind him in response came the bellowing on many dragons. And then Uslukh was on the ground and war and fire was all about them. The dream blurred into the chaos of battle and Gimli’s fevered mind could no longer follow it.
In the second dream, he was running through a forest. A raging river lay on his left but he paid it no mind as he charged through the undergrowth, ducking branches and swerving around bushes. He could hear people running alongside him, but he did not turn to look; all of his attention was focused on the leafy canopy above him, and the shadow that soared beyond it. The sun glinted off the silver scales. He kept his eyes on the dragon above, and barked commands in a language that Gimli could not understand, even as the words left his mouth. The silver dragon began to descend and the dream ended in a rush of heat and screaming, and that screaming followed Gimli back into the waking world.
The third was perhaps the most strangest of all, for in this one, Gimli was not merely some passive observer, either through his own eyes or someone else’s. He came into the dream to find himself standing in the middle of a clearing in a forest. A heavy oppressive feeling was all about him, and when he looked into the trees, there was no escape to be found - every gap between every tree and every branch had been sealed off with lengths and lengths of thread, which upon first inspection appeared to be white, but in truth was woven of many different hues.
But it was the lone tree that stood in the centre of the clearing, its leaves burned autumnal reds, oranges and yellows, but encircling it was a perfect ring of dead soil where the white threads lay that stretched out from the forest lay severed. Gimli wanted to flee from it all, to force himself to wake, but the dream urged him forward.
In the branches of the tree, a figure slept. Gimli could see little of their features in the dim light, but judging by what he could see, they were either an Elf or a very skinny Man. More of the white threads were wrapped around their wrists and their neck like chains, but did not bind them to anything.
As Gimli stepped onto the dead soil, the figure in the tree jerked awake and stared down at him in shock. The white threads about the figure rippled and changed to bronze, even as green threads began to appear around Gimli’s own wrists.
He hardly noticed, struck by the eyes of the figure in the tree. Faceted and glittering blue, with slitted pupils.
The eyes of a dragon.
*.*.*.*
Health returned to Gimli slowly, given how malnourished he was. He was certainly not fighting fit, and spent many nights curled up between Uslukh’s forelegs, shivering despite the lingering summer warmth. The only good thing going for him was the recovery of his pack and the food that was safe within - unfortunately, he needed a lot more food than it held in order to make a full recovery.
Uslukh crooned low and soft by his ear, resting his head on the ground next to Gimli.
“You need to eat,” the dragon rumbled. His mind was as open to Gimli as his own, and thoughts and feelings passed as easily between them as breathing - though Gimli still prefer the comfort of speaking aloud. Uslukh knew when to respond to a thought and when not to. Gimli knew the dragon did not like when Gimli tried to hide his mind from, to keep things secret and private, but he did not push.
“There isn’t enough food,” Gimli grumbled back. “Quit pestering me.”
Uslukh gave another croon of distress and then lapsed back into silence. Gimli could feel his indecision warring within him and wondered what foolish thing Uslukh would do next.
Then, without warning, the dragon heaved himself to his feet, and stretched like a cat rising from a nap. Gimli, unsettled from his comfortable spot against Uslukh’s chest, gave an annoyed (and not entirely dignified) yelp.
“I will get you food.”
Gimli scrambled to his feet, alarm lending him strength as he realised what Uslukh meant. “You must be jesting. That silver brute will be waiting for you; this is not a sensible plan!”
Uslukh looked down at him, blue eyes cold and affronted. “You will die if you do not eat. Aglarebon will not catch me. He is not here now.”
Gimli put a hand on Uslukh’s leg, putting as much emotion into the gesture as he could manage. “If he is not here, then I beg—” and oh how that stung his Dwarrow pride to say. “—Uslukh, take me from this place. I cannot stay here forever, I must go home.”
The dragon was silent for a long moment, shuffling his wings as he ever did when he was conflicted. “I know. Long I have known this. I did not want you to leave. To be alone again.” He exhaled noisily, letting out a cloud of steam. “I will take you. Hurry.”
Gimli could hardly believe his ears. He was going home. His limbs moved of their own volition, gathering up his pack and his few things that lay scattered. And then he was stumbling towards the golden scales of Uslukh, who helpfully crouched down as much as he could to assist Gimli on climbing onto his back.
Beneath him, a tremor ran through Uslukh as he stretched back to his full height.
“Hold on tightly,” he warned. “I will catch you if you fall.”
Gimli’s terse reply was lost beneath the noise of Uslukh’s wings, and then they were climbing, climbing, flying.
Free.
*.*.*.*.*
Dwarves were not made for flying. Much like Hobbits, they preferred to keep both feet on solid earth at any given time, and given the option, would prefer to be underground rather than over-ground.
Flying was for birds, not Dwarves.
Dragons, on the other hand, were made for flying. Very much so, it seemed. They were not, however, made for being ridden. Gimli spent several long terrified minutes (though it felt like hours) clinging for dear life to the scales of Uslukh’s neck, feeling the sharp edges cutting into his legs and hands as Uslukh pushed himself higher and higher. Every flap of his wings threatened to unseat Gimli and the temperature rapidly began to drop the higher they went, leaving Gimli shivering and breathless and pained.
And then, it was over - Uslukh was panting, settling into a hover, back-winging awkwardly to keep himself in place.
“Where is your home?” Uslukh asked. “I do not know these lands.”
“South!” Gimli bellowed over the wind. His eyes were beginning to sting and stream with tears. “Southeast, a mountain that stands alone!”
Uslukh looked to the stars for a moment, pondering. And then, with great effort, spun himself and began to fly on.
“If it is far, then I will need to rest. I am unused to flying distances.”
“Have you not ever left your nest before?” Gimli asked. Though the wind snatched and muted his words, Uslukh seemed to hear him just fine.
The dragon gave a low humming sound that Gimli had come to associate with thoughtfulness. “No, I have not. Aglarebon has always stopped me from going far.”
Gimli looked nervously over his shoulder. “Aglarebon…he is your sire then?”
“No.” Uslukh gave an angry snort, letting out a plume of smoke that left Gimli choking and spluttering as it blew back in his face. The tension in Uslukh’s shoulders and in his mind heavily suggested to Gimli not to push him further on the subject.
“Were you hatched there then?” Gimli ventured a few minutes later, uncomfortable with the tense silence. “In that mountain?”
Uslukh was silent for a few wingbeats. “I do not know. I have always been there. There has never been any but me, and sometimes Aglarebon. Until you came.” Uslukh seemed to perk up a little at that. “I had never seen anything like you before, but you seemed familiar. I do not know why. You gave me words. I am grateful.”
Gimli hesitated, uncertain of what to say next. “You must have hatched somewhere, surely? Had a mother and father? They would not have just abandoned you; there cannot be that many dragons left that they can afford to abandon their young.”
Uslukh gave no reply, his entire body suddenly going stiff with tension. Without warning, the dragon threw himself into a dive, and any breath Gimli had left for screaming was torn away.
“Aglarebon approaches!”
*.*.*.*.*
The ground lurched towards them from out of the dark with frightening speed. Gimli could hear himself yelling, and found that he could not stop himself. He could feel Uslukh’s muscles straining beneath him, fighting to keep them ahead of the pursuing silver dragon.
They levelled out with great effort, skimming along the ground, dangerously low. Gimli clung more fiercely to the scales before him, mentally urging Uslukh to fly faster.
“I am trying!”
There was a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye and then Gimli felt the breath whoosh out him all at once. He heard Uslukh’s cry of alarm and Gimli was knocked from his back. As he fell, he saw Uslukh swerve to catch him, only to leave himself open to Aglarebon’s second assault. The silver caught Uslukh in his massive talons, preventing him from diving after Gimli. Uslukh’s keen distress hit Gimli like a wave.
The world spun dizzily around him, and he curled his body instinctively trying to protect his more fragile areas from further damage.
It did not help.
He hit the ground hard, his shoulder driving hard into the soft earth as he tumbled head over heels. His vision blurred and blacked out and his ears rang painfully. When his body finally stopped rolling, he lay on his back, staring up at the stars and prayed they would stop spinning soon.
Uslukh!
Panic sent him reeling as he fought to regain his feet. What had happened? Gimli felt a cold fear grip his stomach, images rolling through his mind of the aftermath of Uslukh’s last battle against Aglarebon. This time, he knew, Uslukh would not get off so lightly.
The ground shook massively, leaving Gimli staggering and unsteady as Uslukh landed hard. Gimli had no time to reorientate himself as Uslukh crouched over him, snarling defensively and letting out wisps of smoke.
“Stay beneath me,” Uslukh’s thoughts whispered to him. Then he let out a roar and a great stream of fire, a warning to the other dragon to back away.
Aglarebon did no such thing, back-winging neatly to a perfect landing to barely disturbed the ground at all. Even from where he stood beneath Uslukh, Gimli could feel the contempt of the larger dragon. Uslukh let out another roar, echoing across the quiet night.
“He is mine!” came Uslukh’s thundering thoughts, projected far and wide; Gimli had no doubt that every thinking creature within miles had felt his fury and fled in terror. “I will not let you hurt him!”
No response came from Aglarebon, save perhaps a look of surprise that flitted through his bright green eyes. And then he huffed dismissively, and crouched low to the ground.
What is he doing? Gimli wondered, leaning against Uslukh’s leg, craning to see past his bulk, and cursing his poor eyesight.
“Oh no, no, no.” A figure slid down from Aglarebon’s back, shadowed in the dim moonlight. “This won’t do at all.”
*.*.*.*
The figure paced around the silver dragon, their robes swishing noisily against the grass as they went. Then, when they stood between Aglarebon and Uslukh, they lifted a hand and an intense white light burst into being. Gimli shielded his eyes, swearing, and then when he looked back, all the area around them was lit in a soft white glow, emanating from an orb the stranger had set to float above them.
Unnatural. Gimli could not tell if the thought was his or Uslukh’s, but the trepidation that came with it was shared by them both.
Now there was enough light, he could see the newcomer clearly. He had the countenance of an Elven man, tall and lithe, with white hair that he wore in a long braid to his waist, even though he already had it draped over his shoulder in front of him. Woven through the braid, Gimli could make out many ribbons of various colours. The stranger wore robes of a rich red fabric, heavy-looking and ornate, though it lacked decoration or ornamentation. He wore no rings or other jewellery that Gimli could see, nor shoes upon his feet.
Yet, despite what his eyes told him - the build, the clean sweep of pointed ears, the sharp features - Gimli’s instincts screamed that this was no Elf. Whatever he was, he merely looked like an Elf.
“Now then, let me get a good look at you both,” the stranger said, striding purposely towards them. Uslukh lowered his head more protectively in front of Gimli and growled as Gimli had never heard him do. The stranger was utterly unconcerned, stopping only a few feet from them, entirely within snapping distance of Uslukh’s teeth.
He was, Gimli decided, either very foolish or knew something neither of them did.
The stranger looked Uslukh up and down with a critical eye, and Gimli could feel Uslukh’s discomfort under that stare. “Dear dear me, Aglarebon, what have you done to him? Such injuries were unnecessary. Thankfully, they do appear to be healing well. Now-“ his tone sharpened, losing its light sing-song quality. “-do let me see what you are hiding under there.”
Uneasily, and with much reluctance, Uslukh’s forelegs parted just enough for the stranger to see past. His gaze locked with Gimli’s, and all the world seemed to fade away. His mind scrambled to resist, and faintly he could hear Uslukh roaring in outrage - he tangled his mind with Gimli’s, trying to shield him, but they were both too inexperienced at hiding their thoughts.
Power swept into Gimli’s mind, dizzying and sickening. Wave after wave of it broke past his and Uslukh’s fragile hasty defences, drowning Gimli’s thoughts. He could taste the corruption in it and retched, but there was no escape.
Haunting white eyes stared back him until they were all Gimli could see.
Darkness consumed him.
Akrâgkharm!
*.*.*.*
When Gimli awoke, he was in the forest of his fever-dreams again. Those heavy crowded trees, spindle-thin threads woven hither and thither like spider webs, and the dead tree in the centre of the clearing, autumn-crowned.
He was awake, and yet strangely still dreaming - for he must be dreaming to be here.
Where am I?
A figure stepped around the bole of the tree, their step light and noiseless, but remained hidden in its shadow. Gimli’s attention jerked towards them like a puppet on a string. Green-and-bronze thread connected the pair of them, yet when Gimli passed a hand through the string, it was like passing through a sunbeam, insubstantial as smoke.
Amusement, not his own, rolled through him.
Uslukh?
“I told you,” Uslukh’s familiar voice rolled from the mouth of the shadowed figure by the tree. “Uslukh is your word, not my name.”
“Who are you then?” Gimli demanded, stepping forward, though still hesitant to step onto the dead soil that ringed the tree. “Come into the light!”
The figure gave a great sigh and Gimli could sense their reluctance, even as they stepped forth. It was an Elf, as he had first guessed - slim and small, even for Elven-kind, but with an archer’s broad shoulders. He wore a tunic of green and brown, like the Elves of Mirkwood, but his hair was long and a light silvery-blonde, a colour Gimli had never seen among the Elves that visited Dale. His eyes, though, remained as familiar as ever, a bright piercing blue, strangely faceted and slitted as a dragon’s.
“Here I am, Akrâgkharm,” said the Elf with Uslukh’s voice. “And now we come to the truth at last.”
“The truth?” Gimli echoed. “Aye, I would like the truth for once. What is this place, and what is happening?”
The Elf held up a hand for peace, and his sadness washed through Gimli. “I could tell you nothing before now, I could not rightly remember it myself. But now he has come, and with him, I find many old memories stirring.” He sat, cross-legged on the dead soil, and Gimli followed suit, remaining on the living green grass. “Will you listen to me now, and trust my words to be true? We do not have much time until he finds us here, and we must be prepared. You must help me not to lose myself again.”
Gimli frowned, unable to follow his strange words. “Who is he? You dodge my questions with as many meaningless words as any truly Elf, that is for certain.”
Annoyance prickled at him, both his own and the Elf’s. “I will answer as much as I can. Please, a little patience. I am learning as we go, just as you are.” The Elf sighed. “This place…it is my mind, I think. A sanctuary of sorts for my true self, where I could preserve my memories of my old life. A last refuge of safety. I pulled you here, when he sought to sever us. I do not know how I did so, only that I did.”
The Elf shook his head, frowning, and the trees gave an ominous creak. “I am starting in the wrong place. My memory is still full of holes, mired in the forgetting murk that I have spent so long shaking off.”
“Uslukh…” Gimli broke off as the Elf’s eyes flashed at him.
“I am not Uslukh,” he declared again, and he lifted his head, pride etched into every inch of him. “If you must name me in your tongue, it would be Danakhinjam. But in the tongue of my ancestors and those that raised me, the name I bore for many years before disaster came upon me was Legolas.”
*.*.*.*.*
What followed then seemed to Gimli the most preposterous tale he had ever heard - if he was to discount all that he had seen and heard and felt these last few months.
Legolas had not always been a dragon; once, many years ago, he had been a Prince, the youngest son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood. That Gimli had no trouble believing, for even he had heard of the missing Prince of Mirkwood - Thranduil had shut the Woodland Realm against all travellers for over a hundred years, until his eldest son had forced their borders open again during the war for Erebor. If Legolas was indeed this prince, it would make the politics around between Mirkwood, Dale and Erebor very different upon his return.
But to the tale, Gimli’s attention returned.
So Legolas told him, in a quick and hurried voice of how a stranger had come to Mirkwood, seeking shelter. He was taken in for the night by some of the wandering families of the forest, fed and tended to as an honoured guest, and then in turn was escorted to Thranduil’s halls. There the stranger was given audience before Thranduil himself and his two sons. The stranger declared himself to be named Nùtelanyar, a Maia, come from the West to aid the peoples of Middle-Earth. Thranduil had not believed him, but had not outright scorned him, for he had been raised in Doriath in the time of Queen Melian, who herself had been a Maia. He knew their power and was rightly cautious.
Instead, the Elven-King had asked Nùtelanyar what aid he could offer the Elves of Mirkwood, and Nùtelanyar’s response had been one of giddy enthusiasm. He had spoken of an army he was raising, hundreds of years in the making, that would cast down Sauron the Terrible and drive him utterly from Arda - even without the destruction of the Ring. But he was cagey at Thranduil’s questioning of how this was to be done, but eventually revealed that he needed willing Elves for his army and would gift them with immense powers that would best even those Elven-Lords of the First Age when they were at their height and glory.
At this, Thranduil would heed no more. He would allow no Elves to spend their lives on this endeavour, nor would he allow Nùtelanyar to stay. Though he did not voice in then before Nùtelanyar, he told his sons later that the so-called Maia had stirred him a shadow of an ancient fear, more terrible than Sauron.
Nùtelanyar left those halls, but not quietly - he issued two proclamations as he left, spitting them in fury. That he would show Thranduil the strength of his army and he would regret not giving him what he needed. And then he had uttered a word, a word that boomed and pained all who heard it. Then he was gone.
At his word, Legolas had collapsed to the floor and was ill for many days in a way that was unheard of for Elven-kind. His father had fretted and raged and all the Woodland Realm was on high alert. He had not known it then, but a spell had been placed on the young prince, and was working its way through his body, even as the Healers discharged him as well and healthy in the weeks following.
Legolas told no one of the changes that began to occur afterwards, for he had been ashamed. Patches of skin had become tough and scaled, his teeth had sharpened, and he was almost always too hot - these were but the changes he could hide for a while.
And then, Nùtelanyar had returned on the back of the silver dragon Aglarebon. They had attacked the Woodland Realm, setting fire to many of the trees. In the confusion and terror that had followed, Nùtelanyar had ambushed Legolas and spirited him away.
After that, there was a hole in Legolas’ story. His memory became hazy as he spoke haltingly of pain and confusion. Of waking in the mountain-hall, alone. Of Nùtelanyar’s frequent visits that stole more and more of his memories away. Of changing utterly into a dragon and then falling into a deep, dream-filled sleep, where there was only the voice of Nùtelanyar.
Until Gimli came, and Nùtelanyar’s hold on him was utterly shattered.
*.*.*.*
A slow, mocking applause broke the silence between Legolas and Gimli as the tale came to an end. The pair jumped to their feet, turning to face the forest as Nùtelanyar stepped out of the shadows of the trees.
“So this is where your defiance has been hiding,” he said in his echoing sing-song voice. “Clever to hide it all away, so deep that you could not remember it yourself. I could not reach you here, until you showed me the way. Foolish to bring the Dwarf here, leaving me a trail. You should have known I could follow the threads of your bond.”
His colourless gaze turned to Gimli and he bowed extravagantly. “Child of Aulë, I am named Nùtelanyar, the Bond Weaver, once a Maia of the Valië named Vairë the Weaver. And you, Child of Aulë, have taken one of my dragons from me.” His voice became strange and harsh. “I sought only to rid the world of Sauron’s tyranny. Why do you thwart me?”
“You…change people?” Gimli asked, struggling to find his voice. “Into dragons? Why?”
Nùtelanyar shrugged. “Dragons have power above and beyond that of mere Elves. At first I sought to do it as Melkor—” a great spasm of fear lurched through the bond from Legolas at that. “—had done. But I had not his strength. I could not return to Valinor with my task unfinished. My Lady Vairë had charged me, you understand. Go to the War, bring peace to Middle-Earth. It is not yet at peace, not until Sauron is destroyed. So I have done what I could, and now the spell is perfect. I have made my own golden one to rival Glaurung, and my silver Aglarebon to teach him all needs to know to lead my army. All you must do—” he took a step towards Legolas and Gimli. “—is break his bond to you. Give him back to me, so I might finish his bond to me instead.”
The white threads crawled forth from the trees, inching their way towards Legolas as Nùtelanyar spoke. Gimli needed no explanation to understand that if those threads reached him, then Legolas would be lost forever, and only the golden dragon would remain.
I will not let that be so.
He had not asked for this bond, had not asked to be caught up in the affairs of a mad corrupted Maia and dragons-who-were-actually-Elves, had not asked for any of this! But he would be damned to the Void if he let anyone steal someone’s mind and make them a slave.
Meeting the gaze of the Maia, Gimli laughed, brazen and fierce, knowing then what he should do.
“Never.”
He gave himself over the power of the bond, stepping back onto the dead soil that protected Legolas, and felt the power rush over him.
*.*.*.*
Gimli awoke, gasping on the ground, back in the real world, to the roaring and snarling of dragons. He scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly. Legolas, still trapped in his dragon form, had taken to the air and was fighting furiously with Aglarebon.
“Akrâgkharm!” came Legolas mental reply, half-distracted with his fight, but still touched with relief. Though it was still odd to hear what he now knew to be an Elven voice speaking Dwarven words. “I will hold off Aglarebon. Break the threads!”
“Threads?” Gimli yelled, frustrated. Of all the beings to be bonded with, it would have to be a fool-headed, unclear Elf! He looked around again, and saw Nùtelanyar struggling to his feet. In the unnatural light of the spell he had cast, Gimli could see, as he had noted earlier, the woven ribbon through his braid. And as he regained his feet and pushed his hair back from his face, his heavy sleeve fell back and Gimli could see the braided bracelets upon his wrists. Could it be that easy?
Were each of those ribbons a dragon? If they were, then Nùtelanyar had as many as thirty dragon at his disposal. He could not afford to think of that, he could only do what he could.
Gimli drew his axe from his belt and charged towards his disorientated foe. Behind him, Legolas had driven Aglarebon back to the ground and they tore at each other with claws and teeth. The noise was horrendous.
Nùtelanyar saw the furious Dwarf too late, and threw up his hands to protect himself. He was no fighter, not truly. Merely clever with spell craft and deceit when given enough time to work his powers. But when faced with battle and an axe, he would be too easily felled. But Gimli was not out to kill the Maia (for Mahal only knew what horrific luck that might bring upon him), but to simply stun, so he drove the haft of his axe into Nùtelanyar’s soft belly, and then smashed the handle into his chin.
As the Maia slumped, dazed and breathless, Gimli’s axe swung again, severing his braid cleanly. There was no time to stop and think, as Gimli slid through the damp grass, snatching up the braid, and then abruptly turning, scrambling back towards the fighting dragons.
I have lost my mind. No one in their right mind would go towards fighting dragons.
But he did. Because he trusted one of them.
“Legolas!” he bellowed with both mind and voice. “Irsir!”
The dragon turned as Gimli tossed the braid high. Nùtelanyar’s defiant desolate scream echoed keenly as the Maia caught up with him, tackling him to the ground, even as the braid flew high. Bright red-and-orange fire lit the night consuming the braid in a flash.
Nùtelanyar lay atop Gimli, clawing at his face with long nails, tears pouring down his face. “What have you done?” he screeched, his voice breaking. “Hundreds, thousands of years! Ruined by a Dwarf!”
A heavy hand landed on Nùtelanyar’s shoulder, pulling him off of Gimli. He shrieked his rage and grief even as he was thrown aside.
“That is enough.” A new voice said, deep and resonant.
Above Gimli, standing side by side, lit by the unnatural eerie glow, were two Elves, one with hair of silver, and the other gleaming blonde.
*.*.*.*
“And that was the end of it,” Gimli said with an air of finality, poking the roasting fish over their fire. Four hobbits and two men stared at him in amazement. “Aglarebon, restored to his natural form, went to live with those others who had been changed, to care for them. Nùtelanyar vanished into the night and we could find no sign of him. And Legolas and I have been hunting him ever since.”
“I did not realise,” Boromir said, his voice faint with disbelief. “That when I asked how an Elf and a Dwarf came to be friends that I was going to be tested quite so much.”
“Did you know of this, Strider?” Merry abruptly demanded. Five pairs of eyes turned accusingly on the Ranger, as if he had purposefully kept it from them all. Aragorn held up his hands soothingly.
“I knew only little more than any of you,” he said. “For they are well known in Rivendell. But the full story was not known to me - though from the look on your face, Gandalf, I would say it was known to you!”
Gandalf gave a small chuckle from the other side of the fire. “It was. I was there when the two of them came to Rivendell, battered and seeking answers from Lord Elrond.”
“So…” Pippin looked hesitantly from Gandalf back to Gimli. “It is all true then?”
Gimli shrugged and smiled widely. “I told you at the beginning it was a strange tale.”
“Strange does not cover even half of it,” Frodo said, his hand had crept to the chain about his neck as Gimli had told his tale. “Though from all that has happened to us these last few months, I cannot disbelieve it.”
“Why were we told none of this in Rivendell?” Boromir wanted to know.
“Because you were not ready to hear it. And because there are too many listening ears there,” Gimli responded. “This tale is known only to a bare handful of people outside of this Fellowship. Lord Elrond, King Thranduil, and some two or three others. It is a secret, and one that must remain so.”
“Why?” came Pippin’s innocent query.
“For the sake of those who now live in Ered Mithrin under Aglarebon.” Gimli answered gently. “They wish to live quiet lives, away from war and grief for a while, so that they might recover themselves.”
Silence reigned for a moment as they all digested this news. But then, Samwise could no longer contain himself, his thoughts bursting impatiently. Samwise always had to know more of the story.
“But, that cannot be the end!”
“What more would you ever want to know?” Gimli asked, amused.
Samwise was silent for a moment. “Did you ever get any obsidian?”
Gimli laughed and nodded. “I did. But in a different story at a different time. It, too, is quite the adventure.”
The Hobbits exchanged skeptical glances and then turned their attention to Legolas. He had sat quietly during the story, content to let Gimli do much of the talking as he had ever done. His attention, to all appearances, was focused on re-fletching some of his arrows and inspecting the shafts for flaws - but Gimli knew better; Legolas simply liked to keep his hands busy most of the time.
Legolas accepted their stares politely, with feigned disinterest, as their Fellowship raked over his appearance. His shredded ear, his too-bright eyes, the many scars on his body. Gimli could feel Legolas’ amusement and met it with his own.
“What are you thinking, Akrâgkharm?” came Legolas’ questing thought.
“I think you should show off a little.”
“I am not certain that is wise.” Indecision warred with mischief.
“Go on.”
Legolas sighed, shooting an exasperated look at Gimli. Then he grinned, teeth far too sharp, and his eyes flashed in the dark, faceted and slitted.
Dragon’s eyes.