The great worm of Withered Heath had long supped upon the inhabitants of Dale and the North towns, flying as far south as Mirkwood in search of maidens, or horses and oxen if virgins were not to be had. Thranduil had come to these woods, but had long ignored the tales of a worm, Smaug’s mother, it was said, who fed ever further south with each century until her great wings blotted out the sun over Thranduil’s mountain hall. It was her first mistake.

Her leathery wings bore her in spirals down upon the glade. Elves scattered, but not fast enough as she snatched at her chosen prey. A young Legolas found himself staring at his empty hand where once his older, but unwed, sister had been standing but a second ago.

Thranduil’s bellow of rage and revenge made crows as far as Erebor take to flight. Before the sound faded, the king was upon a horse and racing after the dragoness. If it had been a mortal’s horse, the speed and distance would have killed it, but the pale golden elven stallion, of pure maeras blood, had yet to falter, and the king’s eyes never left the shadow in the sky.

The sun had long set when the horse was drawn to a walk. Thranduil knew he was near the dragoness’ den. The smell of sulphur wisped up and pinched the nose. Thranduil drew his blade and entered the lair by the front, bearing no pretence of stealth. Slowly he took himself along the dark tunnel, where charred and cracked bones clattered under his feet. A pale glow ahead spoke of dragon fire, stones of cold, glowing matter, but only dragons knew their make. Not even elves could make such lights that lit the cavern he entered.

He swallowed as she came into sight. She not as large as he had expected, a confirmation that this was indeed a female, but she was still dangerous enough to catch his breath. She sat on her haunches, wings folded, watching him approach. Before her, caged within her fingers sat Meatherwyn, his only daughter.

“The last of the elven kings, nay Teleri and Noldor, but Sindar you rule. Yes, fair king, I know you. From northern Doriath, you pressed my clan, killing them and destroying breeding heights until your kind had destroyed mine. I have but two young left. Smaug, who is but a youngling of his thousandth year, and this hatchling.”

His eyes fell upon the golden dragonet who peeped and tried to get to the elleth between her dams claws. “I had no hand in the worm slaying of Belariand,” he said calmly.

The red-gold dragoness reared back her head. “Your kind, king. You.”

Thranduil nodded, not wanting to anger the dragon who seemed willing to speak. “I accept that mistakes were made in the past,” he said. “Most of them were out of ignorance and fear. Now you have bested me, and revenge is your right. But, before you make a feast of your prey, I have a question, bright one,” he offered. She lowered her head in interest. “Why do you feed upon virgins?”

A low rumble like an earthquake shuddered through the caves as she laughed. “A dragonet takes genetic memory from its food. Virgins are sweet, and innocent of complicated learning that males have, and know not the burdens of maturity.” Her great jaw slid between her fingers to caress the elleth’s cheek, great dagger like teeth half as tall as his daughter. “Tender,” she murmured. A long slimy tongue flicked out to taste her prey, smothering her in saliva. “Tasty, too.”

The elf maiden struggled to stay calm, beseeching her father silently from within the talons. Though Thranduil’s heart had long ceased to beat, it did not show. He stepped forward under the dam’s watchful eye, and scratched the hatchling gently. It crooned, bending her head forward and leaning into his hand. “A fine offspring, beautiful mother,” he said softly. A low purr told him that she had heard him. “Do you love your child?” the king asked.

She said nothing.

Thranduil continued. “So do I. Like you, I will have no other children. My line is also gone. My mate was killed by orcs.” He continued to stroke the pale golden, butter-soft, hide of the baby dragon as he spoke. “Just as this gil is your legacy, the one you hold is mine. She has a younger brother whom she cares for, who is the last born Elf in Middle Earth. Without her care, I do not believe he will thrive. There are no other women within my realm. You hold in your hand all I have of any worth, my Lady.”

“Gil,” the dragoness mused. The baby cheeped and turned her head to her mother. “Gil you shall be.” She drew a ragged roaring breath. A fetid wind blew Thranduil’s hair about his shoulders as she huffed out in thought.

Slowly, Thranduil let the sword he still held slip from his fingers. He walked to where his child sat in tears, shuddering in fear. He laid a slim, cool hand upon the hot, scaled claws of the great dragon. “Mother,” he addressed. “East in Rhún and further there are none who could contest you skill and prowess. Remain here and be hunted until you, and you hatchling, would be bested and lay rotting upon the ground. Take your babe and go. Hunt less dangerous fields and let my daughter go.” The king’s grey-green eyes lifted to the swirling red-orange orbs of the dragoness. “Please.”

The dragon chick butted against the king’s thigh, wanting attention, but none came. The great cage of bone and tendons opened, and Thranduil stepped in and held his child close. “Thank you, good dragon mother. Fly, before my warriors catch up to me. Go,” he urged.

With a tornado of wind, great wings swept around, jaws caught the chick in a tender embrace, and they were gone in a maelstrom of dust and hot breath. At the mouth of the cave, Thranduil and his child watched the worm head east until it had vanished from sight. He smiled. “Smaug will return from hunting to find an empty nest.”

He chuckled as his warriors rode up, armed to the teeth and expecting to find their royal family as corpses upon the ground, at least expecting a fight. “The dragon has fled,” he told them. “Return to your homes.” He mounted his stallion, his daughter before him, and he turned for home.

Smaug did indeed return that night, to find the cave he shared with his mother filled with the scent of elf. He shook his head in disgust. The lair was defiled, and his mother and sister were gone. Soon there after, he headed for Erebor . . .but that is another story.

It had been a powerful dream, awesome yet terrifying. The Easterlings had come from nowhere to invade her mother’s territory. She now lay dead. It a way she was glad that it had happened now and not in a week’s time. That would have made abandoning the eerie more difficult, physically and emotionally.

She stretched her legs a little and squatted down by the fire and thought back on that terrible night. It had only gotten worse as she fled in fear for her life, as some finger-happy elf had shot an arrow at her as she crossed the Anduin. She had screeched at him, but she doubted he even cared. She suspected he had mistaken her for one of her dim-witted southern kin, if any of them still survived.

It had been a wake up call, this was no dream. War was brewing, and she had nowhere to go but west, despite her mother’s promise for her kind never to return. She had a brother here, somewhere, and she had to find him.

She nudged a little closer to the meagre fire. It was cold on the plains, but there were no accessible caves this far from the mountains, and the mountains were not a safe place to be. Orcs had overrun them, they ran so thick that it was hard to get a breath of stagnant air between their twisted bodies, let alone a place to lie down.

She had taken human form for a while, a gift from her Boerning father, whom she had never met, in case some hapless passer-by spotted her. She did not want that. She wanted meat, in her hunger she recalled the last meal she had had to abandon as the Easterlings had swooped in on their oversized pot roast on legs.

She could, if she became desperate, snag a stray horse, but she was too ungainly to carry it off with much success. And, in these lands, if she recalled her mother’s words well enough, there were never any stray horses. Instead, she would have to keep going as best she could until she found her brother.

She lifted her head. The sound of footfalls were becoming increasingly louder and closer and she stood to search eastward. It was the second such interruption to her musings in two days, the last lot had been two hundred strong, and smelled like a graveyard opened up to the air.

She sniffed. This second group numbered only three. A man, an elf and a dwarf. She wrinkled her nose, no horses. She growled softly at her bad luck. She did not care for dwarf, they were too small, barely a between meal snack, and humans were too troublesome a creature to use as prey. They had a tendency to retaliate with spears. And she would not dare go after the elf.

If they kept their course, they would be upon her in a few minutes, but she was too tired to move. She would meet them face-to-face, whether they liked it or not. Though, in all probability, they would kill her as soon as look at her. If she remained in human form, perhaps they might leave her be. It was a chance she had to take.

They were visible now, coming over the brow of the hill, running at full speed towards her. Even in the half-light of dusk, they would not fail to miss her, silhouetted against the western horizon as she was. The elf was in front of the other two. He looked up from picking his way down the stony rise and almost died of apoplexy as he skidded across the lose ground and came to a halt. They stared at each other, his eyes betraying the fact that he was not slow when it came to discerning kinds. She was not a maiden of men, and he knew it.

The second, the man, jolted, stepping wildly backward as he stared at her, wide eyed. The third, the dwarf, stumbled into the man and huffed loudly. He looked up and saw her standing there, motionless, and gasped even louder in astonishment.

She watched them staring back at her. She smirked a little. They looked as though they had already given themselves up as dinner, but after a moment the fight seemed to return to their limbs.

The dwarf drew an axe from his belt and started flexing it. “I’ll cleave the spawn of Morgoth,” he growled. “Just give the word, Ârâgorn.”

She gazed at him down her nose, and said nothing, just looked at him as if she considered him little more than an annoying mosquito. “How quaint, a naug.”

The man, whom she guessed was Ârâgorn, finally found his voice, or an approximation of it at least. “Though you take upon you the form of a mortal woman, I know you are not one of them. What, in the name of the Valar are you, spawn of Morgoth?”

“Silence, human, for I am no more spawn of the devil, than you,” she hissed. She remained resolutely in her form, despite the fact that they knew what she was. She looked at the elf and added, “Why are you travelling with such worthless creatures as these mortals, child?”

The elf had lost the gift of speech as he stared at her, eyes having shrunk to the size of pinheads by that point. “I . . .am not a child,” he replied. He stammered and stuttered a little and finally his voice grew in strength, but still weak and wispy. “We are following the orcs,” he managed.

Ârâgorn blurted out, “They must have passed right by you, did you see them? They were carrying two hobbits captive.”

She hissed in annoyance. “I was not speaking to you, human. Hold your tongue or I shall remove it. Elf, speak,” she commanded.

The elf stared at him and said, breathily, “Hobbits . . .they were going that way . . .”

She cocked her head to one side. “Very articulate.” She grinned with amusement, but at least he was focused, she would give him that. “Your quickest route, if you wish to catch them, would be to go over that hill and cut them off on the other side to rescue the . . .what are hobbits?”

“Finger food, for one so large and powerful as you, no doubt,” the dwarf muttered.

“Gimli,” Ârâgorn quieted him.

She glared at squat-built being, eyes smouldering, and bared my nicely sharpened teeth with a growl. “I do not eat creatures with two legs, naug. They are too chewy and not enough meat . . .but for you, I could make an exception.” The dwarf flexed his axe as she stepped towards him.

The elf did a very un-smart thing then. He notched an arrow and pointed it straight at her chest. “Do not even consider it,” he snarled.

“Legolas, both of you, calm down. She is not our enemy.”

The elf did not move, his large, anger-darkened eyes levelled right at the creature. She was not in a listening mood either. She had had enough of their lack of gratitude and manners. She turned her head to regard the immortal being evenly. Without speaking, she slowly opened her arms, taking her thin cloak with them to show her full brood pouch. Their eyes met and held for a long moment before she said, “Go ahead, for I have not the strength to fight you. Kill the innocent, child of Elvenden, and their blood will be on your hands.”

She watched him consider this very carefully before retracting the arrow. “Wise elf,” she said. “You have come too far to waste your time on me. Get going, over the hill and down into the ravine. If you hurry, you will not be late.”

She turned away from them and sat down beside the little fire, pocked a stick into it and tucked her cloak about her, pretending that they were already on their way and not still standing there staring at her in surprise. The flames climbed further into the sky now that they had fuel to lick at, and the glow lit up their faces turning them orange.

“Is that it?” Ârâgorn wondered. “No payment, no wergild or ransom for your master?”

She lifted herself from her haunches and growled at him as she stepped right through the flames of the fire, to snarl right in his face. The human had enough presence of mind to gasp in fear. “Note me, human, and note me well. I am free and have no master, and I have little time for you petty squabbling amongst yourselves. I do not follow the Dark Lord any more than I follow you. It is you who came upon my camp, not the other way around, so I owe you nothing. Be sure to remember wisdom, man. Forgetfulness will be your downfall. Now . . .get . . .out . . .!” she growled.

Without a second thought, they opted to leave her alone. Following her directions, they ran off up the hill. After a moment of watching them disappear into the night, she stood up and stretched out her wings, which had been folded up, unseen, beneath her cloak. Changeling though she was, even in human form, her wings remained. A legacy from her mother, she supposed. The bane of being born of mixed parentage. She sighed and smiled. Poor Boerning, he had not lived long enough to realise his mistake. Her mother had eaten him the moment mating had been complete. they had not seen since they were folded up beneath my cloak.

Not far away, she could hear their voices as they travelled along the route she had suggested. She listened in until she could hear them no more.

“You should have killed her, Legolas,” Gimli grumbled. “What were you thinking?”

“I could no more do that than you could kill me,” Legolas returned.

“We’ll stop here. I can no longer see the trail,” Ârâgorn noted.

Breathless, the others agreed.

“You should have killed her,” Gimli grumbled on. “What’s to stop her grabbing us as a late night snack in our sleep.”

“She is too weak to carry off any prey, Gimli,” Legolas replied, sitting down on a small boulder.

“How do you know that? What makes you such a good judge of dragons?”

Ârâgorn turned his head in the half light. “He has a point there. I know you, Legolas. It seemed to me that you knew that creature.”

“Not that one, perhaps,” Legolas replied. “But when I was small . . .my sister was walking with me in the gardens. A dragon carried her off and my father brought her back. It is what confuses me. The creature we just met was in the form of a woman. Dragons cannot disguise their form as she did. She said that she does not eat people. She is like no dragon I have ever seen or heard of before, and yet she is dragon-kind.”

“She could be lying,” Gimli noted. “She threatened to eat me.”

“You threatened her, she was defending herself,” Legolas reminded him. “I do not believe she would harm us. She gave us aid in our quest, which has cut a day off our march.”

“True,” Ârâgorn agreed. “And yet she neither asked nor expected any payment in return.”

Gimli snuggled closer in the encroaching chill of night, and welcomed the elf’s arm around his shoulders. “It still bothers me, though. What made you change your mind, Legolas? You were ready to kill her.”

“She was helpless.”

“There was more to it than that.” Gimli interrupted. “The orc Ârâgorn killed at Amon Hen had only one arm, but he still killed it.”

“She was about to give birth,” Legolas added as if he had not spoken. His companions fell silent. “She hadn’t eaten for quite a while, and she had to have flown a long way to reach this far west of the mountains.” Legolas thought long and hard. “Something stirs, perhaps the Easterlings themselves, to have forced her this close to the lowlands were there is little updraft to allow for take off . . .I doubt it not that she has been forced from her home.”

Gimli had already begun to doze. Legolas watched his weary lids droop and smiled gently. Pressing a gentle kiss to him forehead, he jerked upright in an attempt to show that he was awake, but his eyes refused to open.

“It is a cold night,” Ârâgorn said and yawned.

“I shall keep watch and wake you before the dawn,” Legolas offered. Ârâgorn nodded and fell into slumber.

Alone to consciousness, the elf gazed about him at the stillness of the world. Ârâgorn rested against a large boulder, and Gimli leaned against the welcoming warmth of the elf. The night, he knew, would be unfortunately short.

Legolas allowed his mind to drift back in time to that day in the garden. He had heard the shriek, not unlike that sound they had heard on the river. Worms were the same all over despite their loyalties, or lack of. They were dangerous. He had been holding his sister’s hand, still learning to walk as he was. And she was smiling . . .and then she was gone. He had looked up in time to see her hair flying behind her, her face a vision of terror as she screamed. Then there had been the blur that was his father and the horse he had ridden. Suddenly he had been alone on the path, with only a stranger to pick him up and hold him as he cried.

Legolas breathed a calming breath. The pain still haunted him, even though both his father and sister had returned unharmed. Legolas had never seen such terror on anyone’s face as he had on Meatherwyn’s face that day, when the dragon had returned and ousted the dwarves in his rage at finding his mother gone. At least, that had been Thranduil’s guess.

The elf glanced at the dwarf beside him and felt suddenly guilty, despite the fact that it was none of his doing. Gimli had been born in exile because of something his father had done, Legolas did not know what it was, but he could not shake the feeling that he was right.

Gimli whispered his name in his sleep, and Legolas smiled. The dwarf often did that, though he knew not why. He wondered if he ever mumbled ‘Gimli’ in his sleep, but then he rarely slept. He tightened his hold on the dwarf for a moment, rubbing a hand affectionately up and down his arm.

Towards the east, a white line had begun to separate the land from the sky. Still nothing stirred. Soon he would have to wake them. Legolas took one last moment to rest his lips against the dwarf’s forehead before whispering his name. Two small but bright brown eyes blinked and opened.

“It is time to rise.” Gimli made no argument and found his feet at once, giving himself a stretch and a shake. “Ârâgorn, the dawn approaches.”

The man opened his eyes and rubbed them, yawning widely before he rose to stretch his legs. “Can you see them, Legolas?”

“Yes, they are still ahead of us, but not very far, maybe ten hours or less,” the elf replied.

“This short cut really did work,” Gimli replied in grudging praise.

Legolas smiled at him warmly. Just them he looked up as a black shape crossed the still dark sky.

“Fell beast!” Ârâgorn hissed. “Legolas, bring it down!”

“No!” Legolas replied sharply, narrowing his eyes as he watched it disappear over the crest of the hills. “It is far too small.” His thoughts turned back to that night on the Anduin, and he wondered.

“Let us not waste this fair gift,” Ârâgorn told them. “We are in sight of victory, let us go on.”

They agreed and pressed on at a good pace. Up ahead Legolas’ keen eyesight told him that something was happening. The worm was circling something. Suddenly she fell from the sky and disappeared from sight. The elf cried out, unable to stop it.

“She has been hit!”

The man and the dwarf could do nothing but follow behind him as the elf sprinted away and was quickly lost in the distance.

Legolas tore down the hill as if the very fell beasts of Morgoth were snapping at his heals. Dropping off the edge of the escarpment he took to a run across the grassy canyon. On the far side, a huge dark shape lay crumpled upon the ground. The leaf-thin wings fluttered in the gentle breeze, but otherwise it was motionless. Only as he drew to a stop did he hear the whimper from beneath one of its wings.

There was an arrow in her shoulder and a blade in her chest. He swallowed, recognising both weapons at once. One was his, just as he had feared. The other was orc in origin. Quickly he stowed his bow and knelt beside the fallen creature. Carefully he touched her, lifting and folding the upper wing out of the way.

She blinked into the rising sun and blinked again as she thought she saw someone from her deep past standing over her, but the image faded as she began to lose consciousness again. She moaned weakly. Legolas took pity on her and untied the water pouch from beneath his jerkin, and offered her some. She swallowed gratefully and tried to get up.

“Lie still,” he said gently. “You are badly wounded. I have not herbs to stop neither the bleeding nor the pain. My friends will arrive in a moment. Try to hold on.”

She opened her eyes and gazed up at him. “Why are you helping me?” she asked softly.

“You are an enemy of my enemy. That makes us allies, if not friends,” he replied.

“I flew overhead and watched you gaining on the orcs, now you are losing them again,” she groused.

“This is worth the time you need to heal,” he replied. “I saw you circling. What were you doing?”

“I was about to make my first kill in weeks; a white horse, alone, with no riding leathers. I was about to kill it and the black creatures sheltering in the surrounding rocks took a shot at me . . .a throwing knife I see now.”

“A lucky shot.”

“For them,” she said. “I shall die now, and take my babies with me.”

“You are close to death, but I will try to save you,” Legolas promised.

“You shot at me, over the Anduin, so, in a way, I am already dead, elf child,” she noted, eyes flickering to the bow that peeked over his shoulder and then at the arrow that was still embedded in her shoulder. “Thought I was one of Nazgul’s lot, I suppose,” she added resignedly.

“A fell beast,” Legolas realised. “Yes. That was you?”

She sniffed him. “Your scent is somewhat familiar. Do you come from Mirkwood?”

“I do,” he replied. “There were dragons there once. My father bested them and rescued my sister. They are long gone now.”

The female scowled at him. “That was my mother . . .and I, boy. And I grow tired of your blinkered memory.”

Legolas swallowed. “Forgive me,” he begged softly. “I was only a small child. I do not remember very much. Please, rest. Save your strength. Ârâgorn has healing herbs that will help”

She closed her eyes and ceased to struggle. She watched him covertly, but she soon gave that up when she found him watching her with the large grey-green eyes she found strangely familiar. “So you are the son of Thranduil,” she noted.

“Yes,” he replied.

“My name is Gil, a name your father gave me, in return for your sister’s life and our promise never to eat of the two-legged creatures again. I hope it was worth it.”

“Have you tried eating orcs?” Legolas wondered.

Her orange eyes narrowed. “I am not that desperate!”

Legolas suddenly smiled with amusement. “I must remove the arrow before I can start on the blade. It may cause you pain. Forgive me.”

The great head nodded, eyes almost closed with the pain already. A low moan drifted up between he slightly parted lips as the elf gently touched the blade. “Which one will bleed less fiercely,” she spoke suddenly.

Legolas eyed both wounds. “The arrow,” he replied. “There is a pulse that beats against the blade. I fear removing it without the aid of Ârâgorn.”

“What can the man do?” she demanded hoarsely. “And there is no reason that he would help one of my kind.”

“Your kind?” Legolas noted insightfully. “You are half-dragon, only. Ârâgorn is half-elven. Like it or not, you are alike. Neither in one world or the other . . .but stuck between both.”

She growled weakly. “I do not approve of your humour, child. Remove the arrow, if you must, but be quick. It is the blade that ails me more.”

Legolas grasped the arrow in both hands and pulled swiftly. She went rigid and cried out. Gasping, she panted, writhing at his feet. “Lie still,” he cautioned. “Lie still. You may do more damage.” He knelt beside her, a hand on her cheek. “Forgive me. I did not intend to hurt you.”

She panted for a while, uncaring. “The arrow was not the source of the pain, child,” she growled thickly.

Legolas sucked in a breath. “Your young ones?”

She shook her head. “You trod on my fingers.”

Legolas looked down, and suddenly chuckled with relief. “I am sorry,” he told her, gently lifting the offended hand out of the way of his clumsy feet.

“It is alright, child,” she breathed. “I am likely to scream more loudly when you remove the blade, unless I pass out . . .or worse.”

Legolas glanced at her. “Why do you call me ‘child’?” he asked. “If you are Gil, we are about the same age.”

“We age much slower then you elves do, son of Thranduil,” she noted with amusement. “I not only match your age, I have several hundred on you.” She closed her eyes for a long time, and still seemed to be fading before his helpless eyes.

Legolas sat beside her and watched her, looking up at the cliffs he had jumped off, wondering where the others were. “Do you need more water?”

She shook her head. “I shall soon slip into the world beyond, child. I do not think it possible for you to save me. Perhaps if I can last long enough, a wizard could care for my young ones . . .if any still live.” When Legolas did not respond she opened her eyes to see a tear slip silently down his cheek.

“The last of the wizards died not long hence,” he whispered, his voice unable to gain any volume to it.

Gil lifted a hand and rested it on his shoulder, as huge as it was it almost engulfed him. “It grieves you, child,” she whispered. “Did you not mourn his loss when he departed?”

“I did not allow myself to do that,” Legolas replied.

“Then you should,” she replied. She moaned thickly.

“Hold on, Gil.” Legolas looked up and at last he could see Ârâgorn and Gimli across the grass. “My friends are here.” He stood up, watching them approach, wishing he could hurry them somehow. He could see that they were pleased to see him.

Finally they drew level.

“Gil needs help. She has an orc blade embedded in her chest. I was afraid to draw it out in case she bled to death.”

Aragorn eyed to wound and the discarded arrow. “This is your arrow.”

“I know,” Legolas replied. “She was the creature I mistook for a fell beast over the Anduin. Can you help her?”

Aragorn began to shake his head, but paused. “I do not know, mellon nîn. The blade looks deep, and she looks already at the gates of the after world.”

“For her younglings sakes, please try,” Legolas pleaded.

Ârâgorn sighed and knelt beside the dragon. “You say her name is Gil? That is an elvish name.”

“My father named her. She is too weak to speak now, but she and I have spoken. She is the child of the dragon who took my sister.”

Ârâgorn absorbed this in silence. Leaning closer to the now deathly silent dragon, he inspected the wound. He took out a herb powder horn from his belt and balanced it in one hand, while readying himself with the other hand outstretched. “Gimli, get ready to hold her down, Legolas,” he indicated to her other side. He waited. “I am sorry, Gil, but this is going to be unpleasant.” He chewed inside of his lip for a moment, stealing himself as he grasped the blade and pulled upward.

As expected, Gil’s eyes flew open, but she made no sound, slipping rapidly into unconsciousness. Ârâgorn poured in the powder as the wound began to flood and spill over, but soon stopped. Ârâgorn finally released a breath.

“Will she live?” Legolas asked.

“I do not know,” Ârâgorn replied.

Gil slowly woke, her cloak bundled under her head, bandaging rigged to keep pressure on the wound in her chest. It was no easy feat with arms and wings, but she lived. As the sun sank, she eyed her surroundings.

To the mortal’s credit, and to her own healing powers, she was well on the mend. Her nose twitched. Though she woke in human form, her tummy growled at the scent of prairie buck, freshly killed and lying not far away, ready for her to feed. The human-elf cross sat back on his haunches and watched her, not warily, but in concern.

“Eat, great Lady. Legolas says you are in treaty with his family, and thus to me. I would not have you go hungry.”

With much wincing and whimpering, she managed to turn and reach for the buck. She dragged it closer, and sniffed deeply, not because she expected treachery, it was instinct.

“I am Ârâgorn, soon to be king of unified Arda . . .that is once Sauron is bested,” he said.

The warm, salty tang of bloody meat filled her senses as she ripped at the meat, breaking bone and rendering hide. Even in her human form, she feasted like a dragon. The whole of the carcass was swiftly gulped down. The king . . .prince . . .or whatever he was, seemed content that she fed.

“My lady, how fare the eggs?” he asked, with genuine care.

She placed a hand upon the pouch. “They live, mortal,” she replied. “You have tarried when haste was prudent. Hmm, the hobbits will be lost.”

Ârâgorn shook his head, pointing to the horses grazing nearby. “You have slept two days,” he informed her. “We lost the hobbits into Fangorn Forest, but they are safe with allies. And, we found our wizard, alive and well. We returned only to see you well enough to fly. We have business in Edoras it seems.”

Gil nodded slowly. “I am well. My gratitude. You must be about your quest.” As Gimli, Legolas and a robed figure approached, she bolted to stand as fast as her wounds allowed. “Gandalf,” she bowed her head. “The blue wizards in the east speak of you, but I thought you the grey . . .not white,” she murmured in confusion.

Gandalf laughed. “I was. Alas, one of your kin dragged me from Hell’s watery depths to the frigid reaches of Mandos, and I was returned.” She nodded as he paused. “The balrog of Khazad-dûm is no more.”

Gil tilted her head. “You expect me to weep?” she wondered. “I have less need for ones so turned to evil designs than you might think, Grey Beard.”

Gandalf looked seriously into her eyes. “Truth, Lady, what brings the half-dragon from the east back to the land her mother’s treaty bade her never to enter?

“My brother,” she said. “I seek Smaug.”

All four swallowed, and eyed each other. “Mayhap, word has not reached thee,” Gimli said. “Smaug was destroyed not sixty turns ago by men of dale, protecting their homes.”

“Foolish drake,” she huffed, saddened by his passing. “Then it is truly I who am the last. My dam perished by Runic magic when she refused to serve Sauron.”

Legolas nodded. “Aye, my lady, the last, and by treaty of my father, you are on forbidden ground.” He paused to consider what this meant. “But as his son and heir, I rescind that clause. Rest in the western lands, but hunt no more than you need. Sentients, be they two, four legged or upon the wing, these you may not hunt. However . . .orcs, goblins and crebain are fair game even to practice, even their beasts of burden, stolen by their souls into service of the Dark Lord and to Saruman.”

Gil nodded, flexing her wings. “Agreed, Legolas, son of Thranduil, giver of peace and one who named me. The last dragon, though only half I am, and my chicks will be as well. For I found another half drake, a silvan worm who escaped Beleriand, also Beorning, but he fell to an Ithilien arrow on our trek west.”

“You lost your mate,” Gimli said softly, and she nodded. “I grieve for thee, Lady, for whatever the feelings between drakes and dwarves, all mourn when such is lost.”

“Thank you, naug.” Gil wiped her bloody jaw over the back of her hand. “Farewell, Legolas and company. I must find a dry place by nightfall. Fight well, die free, and may the battle fall to the righteous.”

With that she reared back, great wings reaching to the sky, grabbing air and lifting her off the ground in a maelstrom of debris. As they watched her leave, Ârâgorn frowned.

“Why did she call herself the last? Does she not carry with her the next generation?”

Legolas turned his large eyes to his sworn brother, and held his gaze for a moment, before turning away. “We must ride for Edoras,” he said, and said no more.

Not much more than a day later, men cried in battle cry and in pain and fear as the wargs came upon them. There had been barely enough time to get the woman and children away from the narrow gorge in time. Gimli fell from the horse and landed on his back, dazed. Without a moment to take stock he was on his feet again, to see a warg heading straight for him. But by the time he had seen it, Legolas had turned, aimed and killed it. Gimli roared at him.

“That one counts as mine!” he retorted by way of thanks. Something dark and odorous breathed hotly down his neck. He had time to turn and register what it was before it seemed to lift off the ground.

Suddenly, unseen, a dark form had appeared above them and snatched at the leaping beast, carrying it off, squealing until it hung limply from her claws. Legolas watched it for a moment, a smile of pleasure crossed his face as it vanished from sight. She had paid her due, Gimli would live. Ârâgorn, however, was not so lucky.

No one noticed the crebain overhead. The men of Rohan had no reason to consider them a threat, they were merely birds. They rounded the tight curve of the mountain and turned back towards Orthanc and only one pair of eyes watched their progress. They were almost upon her before they noticed her presence, and after the initial start of surprise, they approached, gaily greeting one of their own.

Perched as she was on the brow of the hill, stretched out in the sun, she watched them. A slow smile of expectation grew on her large scaly face. She waited and before they could do more that tell her of their destination and why, she opened her mouth. Without warning they were engulfed in a spray of hot venom, which, as it met and mixed with the air, exploded into flame.

As quickly as it had begun, it was gone, and several hundred char-grilled and smoking birds dropped out of the sky. Only one remained.

“Oops,” she said sweetly. “A touch of indigestion.”

The instantly terrified creban stared at her in horror and opened its beak to screech a warning that even Sauron would hear. Teeth opened up and the bird disappeared within them.

“Anyone for roasted crow?” she asked. She looked around to see if anyone replied, which they didn’t. “No one?” she asked again.

A low ache began in the pit of her stomach and she sat up at once. She knew what that meant. It was time to go somewhere dry and dark. She lifted up into the air upon the last warm thermals of the day and headed straight for the niche she had found that morning. It was small, but perfectly formed.

“Did you see them?” Legolas asked.

Ârâgorn nodded. “By now, they will have taken their message back to their master and told him everything.”

Legolas turned to him, a decidedly wicked gleam in his eye, and his friends did not like the look of the smile that graced his lips. “They will not reach Isengard.”

She was only half dragon. Her sire was of the Boernings, changelings that dwelt in the southern region of Mirkwood. She had no idea if he had known what her mother was before falling for her. For a moment she regretted not getting the opportunity to ask him. A bitter mistake for the shape-shifter, ending in a fine feast for the dragon, which also meant Gil now faced a problem.

Her eggs were soft-shelled, large and uncomfortably trying to exit her body. She had observed hawks go through their ‘birth pains’, and even some humans, but she had never expected to feel it for herself. She grumbled, huffing with annoyance and discomfort. Why could she not just lay the eggs like her mother? Not that she had ever had the chance to see her mother with another clutch. Mother had been the last true dragon. There were no others.

Gil turned this way and that in the tiny space, a mere niche compared to previous caves she had inhabited. Suddenly the egg dropped from her, the shell little more than a thickened membrane that split open upon contact with the air. The chick lay motionless between her feet as she regained her breath.

There was more than one, but, untold to Ârâgorn, the first of them appeared to be dead. She blinked down at the unmoving chick and nudged it with her muzzle. It did not respond. There was no wastage, she picked it up in her mouth and gulped it down along with the shell. She had not the time to chance a stray scent greeting an unwanted visitor.

Not far from her hiding place, she could hear a multitude pass by. Men, women and children’s voices rose together in subdued conversation. It went as well with them as it seemed to go with her, though she knew not what they were fleeing from. They were oblivious to her presence. Just as well, she thought. One look at her and the whole country of Rohan would become a stampede. For the moment, she could not care less, she had other business than their welfare in mind.

She shifted as the discomfort rose again and she heaved another egg onto the cold stone. This one moved even before the shell had parted. Dusty jade-grey eyes opened and blinked up at her . . .it lived, she was relieved to find. There were two more to come, but for now she licked the helpless creature clean, removing any trace of the scent of birth from his body. Yes, he was male.

This was nothing like what her mother had described to her, but her instincts filled in the blanks. She was only half drake. Full drake knowledge did not cover all eventualities. Out of necessity, the chick hunkered down, silent and motionless. Soon she would need to hunt, but for now she heaved another egg into the world . . .only to find it dead, like the first.

Legolas stood alone considering Ârâgorn’s words. ‘Then I shall die as one of them!' He swallowed the fear. They had only just got him back, did he think himself so worthless as to throw his life away? Did he not realise that if he died, they were lost? He had to have realised it, he must.

Legolas suddenly looked up and saw a dark shape coming towards him. Shouts had begun from the battlements and only a second later it plunged into the icy depths of the pool at Legolas’ feet. The water again was calm before a human head bobbed up above the surface to gaze at him with pearled orange-jade eyes, the colours of which seemed to swirl together. Her jet-black hair clung to her alabaster skin as she rose, as if lifted from beneath, to regard with amusement the tempest she had caused.

“Did I disturb the hornets?” she inquired softly with feigned innocence.

Legolas coughed a laugh and cleared his throat. “I believe you did,” he replied. He watched her dip herself under the water and re-emerge a little further away. The water ran off her pale skin, turned silvery in the moonlight. She was beautiful, and captivating.

“It will rain tonight, and I can help you no more. The crebain are destroyed, as are the wargs. Word will not have reached Saruman of their spying or the attack in the hills. Nor of your numbers . . .which are few, I might add.”

“Yes,” Legolas agreed. “But we have no choice.”

“Even you enemies have no choice, child. You must fight. To give up now, is to admit defeat.” She turned to look at him evenly. “If you fail this night, by morning I and my young ones will be hunted and killed.”

Legolas lowered his eyes. “Your young ones did not all survive. I felt it,” he added as she turned to look at him.

There was a companionable silence between them.

The men along the battlements were watching her with keen interest, some leering, some wary and shocked. There was a whiff of hot breath that whooshed up into their faces as she laughed.

“They do not know whether to thank me or kill me,” she noted.

Legolas smiled and chuckled softly. “You are beautiful enough to make even an elf forget that his heart is taken.”

“Knowing dwarves, I judge myself lucky, child, that the one who took it does not know,” she replied. “Else, I would already be dead.” She dipped beneath the water and curled herself around just below the surface. After a while she re-emerged in her dragon form, eliciting cries of fear from above her. “Perhaps I should leave,” she decided.

Legolas smiled. “They will have enough to fear this night, but you are not their enemy.”

She sighed gently. “They and I will always be enemies, Legolas . . .unlike the dwarf and you,” she added insightfully.”

Legolas lowered his head, cheeks glowing in the torchlight. “I am sure I do not know what you mean.”

Gil said nothing, a low rumbling chuckle thrummed about her. She leaped for the wall, wings beating furiously. Then she was over it and gone . . .leaving many a solder in need of new leggings.

Legolas stood alone, left with much to think upon, and not all to do with the coming battles. In silence, he wondered if they would ever meet again, or that he would have chance to tell his father of the treaty re-forged. In the meantime, he had a brother to find and make amends with. He turned and took the stairs to the armoury, and there he found him. Without making a sound to alert him to his presence he watched him prepare and at the opportune moment, lifted his sword . . .