Wind on the Withered Heath ch. 1

Along the floor of the east-west valley between the great Grey Mountains, lay the fiery wrath of the inhabitants of the breeding ground known by most as The Withered Heath. To the north of Rhovanion and the remnants of the wall of the Iron Mountains, dragon-infested land stretched across Middle-Earth, a place feared by all from as far as the Barrow-Downs of Eriador to the treacherous black land of Mordor.
           The powerful Morgoth had long since fallen, cast into a dark deep and bottomless void, never again to see the light of Arda’s sun, lest the Valar fall and the disgraced Maia Sauron return to power. However, this mattered to none in The Withered Heath, for the dragons remembered their master. The dragons, the winged drakes created and bred from the very ash of Gondolin, would never forget the cruel and twisted soul by which life was forced into their miserable bodies. Morgoth had not brought life to nurtured and loyal beings, he had purposely forged from the deepest pits of despair the most wretched of Tumladen’s creatures, creatures bred of chaos and destruction.
           The dragons were inconsolable in their greed, and cursed their master for the longevity and quality of life that fell dependent on gold and gemstone. It was in their very nature to pillage and to steal, to breathe fire and to kill, and most of these unfortunate drakes were horrified by this unstoppable force burning inside of them. For the very worst thing Morgoth gave to his creations was an intense amount of emotion, intelligence, and conscience. They were forced to pillage and to kill, and then subjected to wallow in their guilt and self-pity, which usually ended up becoming anger, and only fueling more war and bringing about more death.
           It was because of this misfortune that most great dragons (only after Morgoth’s death of course) slept on their hordes of gold for centuries, never to bother another soul so long as they should live. Unless, of course, said dragon was robbed or otherwise disturbed, which would reawaken the intense anger that lay dormant in every dragon’s heart. By the beginning of the Third Age, most drakes already owned piles of gold and no one in Middle Earth was bothered much by the nearly mythical beings.
           There is, on the other hand, an exception to every rule. There were still a few dragons left to live in The Withered Heath, dragons with no gold to their name and no immortality on their side. An entire family of dragons had been living, breeding, and dying in that valley for centuries. These dragons prided themselves on not being like the rest of Morgoth’s creations, they were able to resist the dark desires that lurked within them, they wanted to be good and were willing to pay the price of mortality to do so. The dragons living in the Heath at the start of our story were little in number, but substantially big in heart considering their race.
           There was Ralarth the Protector, mate of Igirre and father of several young dragons living in The Withered Heath. He was a great white dragon, and incredibly powerful for one so docile in nature. Ralarth and his kin lived peacefully in the valley with only one other family of drakes, with whom the children were betrothed to one day marry.
           Ralarth and his people coexisted with the Noldor for many years, completely unaware that a band of Noldor kind were working closely with a Dwarven king from a neighboring village. King Moriarty from the kingdom of Reichenbach, a small space just below the mountains, had been informed by a group of Elvish extremists that the dragons who had slaughtered their families in the War of Gondolin were loitering in the valley near their homes. This wasn’t entirely a lie, as one of Ralarth’s sons, Mycroft, had been the one sent by Morgoth to terrorize this land.
           Mycroft the Fire Drake of Gondolin, that is what they called him. Morgoth had forced him to wipe the entire city into near extinction, carrying Balrogs on his back. Mycroft was perhaps one of the more numb dragons, opting to feel little guilt for his actions, but his heart was not prone to evil, and he never wished for anything that occurred in that war to be by his own hand. He was a beautiful dragon, a rich purple hue, enormous in comparison to his brothers and sisters, and was adorned with glittering golden scales along his thin but hardly bereft tail.
           Within this particular family of dragons, Mycroft had been burdened with the task of looking after his younger siblings, Smauglock the Golden in particular. Smauglock had a knack for both mischief and a troubling amount of curiosity, constantly getting himself into trouble. This dragon was smaller in stature than that of Mycroft, but was a glossy cherry red color (with a gold underbelly, hence the name) more beautiful than even Mycroft ever hoped to be. Though Mycroft would never admit it, Smauglock was perhaps his favorite of his siblings, and he saw a lot of himself in the younger drake.
           It is with Mycroft and Smauglock that this story truly begins. It was Smauglock who was out on That Day, his nose stuck in where it didn’t belong, per usual. The curious young dragon had flown out over the Grey Mountains, stretching his wings and taking in all he could see. He was unaware of those who fled at the mere sight of him, and others of those who pointed and stared. Smauglock was only five hundred years old, still just an adolescent. He didn’t understand that the other races of Middle-Earth feared his kind, or that he was part of any sort of minority. He perched on the summit and peered out on the kingdoms south of the mountain range, a smile stretching across his features.
           Smauglock had been born with a gift of deduction, he was one of the most intelligent of all the great dragons, and his keen eyes scanned his new surroundings with a scrutinizing amount of care.
Grassy plane
Well worn
Cabin
Clothes line
….Scarf?
           From what he could deduce, the summit was occupied very obviously by an Elven family living in the cabin behind him. The worn grass was an indicator of children, namely male, and about five from the looks of the dirty laundry. It was a windy morning, and Smauglock assumed that was the reason that a lone scarf had gotten free from the laundry and was caught and billowing from a nearby willow. It was a deep blue and for some reason the dragon couldn’t quite put his talon on, he was fascinated by it. Smauglock was using his tail to wrap the piece of fabric around his long neck when the harsh beating of wings was heard in his ears.
           “Mycroft.” Smauglock drawled in a bored tone, without having to look up to know who was there. The elder dragon was glaring at his brother, bright eyes narrowed into slits.
           “What are you doing here, Smaug? Do you know what father will do to you if he finds you out here?!” Smauglock lazily gazed at his older sibling, a hardly contained annoyance brewing behind his calm demeanor.
           “Please do bother to pronounce my name in its entirety. I find nicknames to be dull.” Truth was, Smaug is what his mother called him, and due to her recently fast fading health, Smauglock had decided she reserved a special right to call him as she pleased. Mycroft was well aware that the endearment was only allowed to his mother, but it was a fairly new rule and abiding it was hard on the entire family.
           “Excuse me, Smauglock, but if we don’t depart from here soon there will be consequences. Elf folk haven’t taken too kindly to us since…” Mycroft was cut off by the sound of a female scream and a thud, turning to find the mother of the household had discovered them and fainted. The sound of heavy male footsteps rushing toward the cabin door was easily picked up by the ears of both dragons and Mycroft immediately took to the sky.
           “Run!” Smauglock quickly followed his brother, the two rushing back toward their valley as the Elves gathered outside.
“Boe de meriad I naneth!” A long haired Elven man shouted to his children, five sons, as Smauglock had predicted. The children each helped carry their mother back inside while the father ran out to the back of the house and grabbed a bow. The Elf whistled and waited, a small crow flying swiftly to him and landing on his shoulder.
           “Tôl auth, avo dheo enni. Gurth anin lhûg! Er-pehded in hadhod, Moriarty. ” The crow flew away as hurriedly as it had come, and the Elven man glanced grimly around his home. It smelt of death in the air and the atmosphere was crawling with unease. The Elf’s only hope was that the downfall would not be their own.
           Ralarth was furious when his children returned to the den. Not only had they broken the rules, but Igirre had fallen ill whilst they were gone, more so than her usual ailments, and she didn’t appear to have long. Smauglock and Mycroft both rushed to her bedside, looking on their withered mother with gloomy eyes.
“Smaug…Mycie…” She whispered, coiling up as she fought to become comfortable in her last few moments.  It was while this was going on that Moriarty received word by way of crow, gathering his military forces and beginning a march into the sorely unprotected Heath. Moriarty’s army was larger than any expected, having gathered Men, Elves, and Dwarves from all over to join in the war effort, and Ralarth knew they couldn’t fight off as many as were coming.
           Ralarth left his ailing wife with her grief-stricken sons, ordering the rest of his family to evacuate while they still had the chance. The only problem was, they didn’t have a chance, and Moriarty’s troops had been waiting on them. It only took one arrow to pierce and kill the eldest of the children, Sherrinford, and begin one of the bloodiest wars the dragons had faced yet.
           Smoke rose and the mountain blazed, scorching hot fire licking and consuming those who dared fight on the front line. One breath from a dragon was enough to take out ten men, but the dragons were so few, and the more soldiers decimated the harder the rest fought. By the time ten thousand casualties had been paid by Moriarty, only Ralarth remained. He was wounded, but determined to defend the small cavern concealing Mycroft and Smauglock, who were still with their mother’s body.
           “Give it up, abomination! This battle is lost!” Moriarty shouted, drawing his sword and making his way to the front of what was left of his followers. Ralarth reared back and let out an earth shattering roar, embers blowing harshly from his nostrils as he prepared to give the last that he had left in him. A taunting smirk crossed Moriarty’s lips, an almost hysterical laugh ringing out in that tar like darkness.
           “I will burn you, I will burn the heart out of you!” Moriarty growled, a sickly satisfied look crossing his face as he watched a few of his men creep toward the cavern from his peripheral vision.
           “No, it is I that shall burn you.” Without a moment’s more thought Ralarth vomited fire, not in Moriarty’s direction, but in the direction of those who had not gone unnoticed, sneaking into his den. It had weakened the old dragon considerably and Moriarty knew it. He’d won.
           “People have died.” Ralarth muttered almost incoherently, as if asking for motive. Ralarth and his family hadn’t done anything deserving of this bloodshed. Moriarty tilted his head to the side curiously and seemed to think about it for a moment.
           “Aw, well, THAT’S WHAT PEOPLE DO!” He screamed, walking closer to Ralarth still, knowing full well that there was nothing the drake could do to defend himself at this point. He reached out, gently stroking the pure white scales of the beast and earning a venomous hiss in return. Moriarty’s sword trailed along the soft underside of the dragon, whose lids were drawing heavy.
           “Catch you…later.” Ralarth panted out, knowing full well that this was the end. The Dwarf let out a cheery chuckle and shook his head.
           “No you won’t!” He jabbed the sword deep into the heart of the dragon, who let out one final, pained roar, and collapsed. The sound could be heard by Mycroft and Smauglock, who shuddered as their father’s final wail ricocheted off the cavern walls. Smauglock was wrapped around his mother, who had peacefully passed away during the battle, his snout buried in her neck. Mycroft on the other hand had put mourning on the backburner, his instinct to protect his little brother coming before all else. Mycroft knew this battle hadn’t died with his father, Moriarty was coming for them next.
           “Sorry, boys! You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.” King Moriarty quipped as he entered the dragons den. He was covered in blood, blood Mycroft knew belonged to his father, and the drake’s teeth snarled at the Dwarven king.
           “Probably my answer has already crossed yours.” Mycroft glanced behind him quickly, a forlorn expression breaking onto his features as he watched his younger sibling.
           “Go, Smauglock!” He urged, turning back to face Moriarty once more, ready to go in for the kill. Smauglock opened his mouth to shout a no when Moriarty charged the elder dragon.
           “I said go, now!” Smauglock closed his eyes and did as his brother asked, fleeing the den and flying from The Withered Heath without so much as a second glance.
           Hatred was swelling in Smauglock as he flew out over the Lonely Mountain, a single mountain that stood between his own home in the Grey Mountains and the Iron Mountains that lay in the north. Smauglock had never hated another being in all his life, but That Day, that was the day that encased his heart in ice. The day Smauglock the Golden became Smauglock the Terrible…the day all Dwarves in the kingdom of Erebor would come to rue.
           What fowl creatures Dwarves had turned out to be! That Moriarty…damn him! Curse him! Smauglock would never forget, never forgive.  These were the thoughts that were running through the drake’s mind when he headed straight for the town of Dale and obliterated everything in his wake.
           “Dragon! Dragon!” They all shrieked, piles of Dwarves and Men alike running from their homes and into the streets, blindly fleeing into Smauglock’s inferno. Crawling into the front gate of the mountain was next on his list, bent on leaving no Dwarf he saw alive. Smauglock took a deep breath, building fire in his chest as large as the burning rage he felt running through his veins, flames of emerald and scarlet bursting from his chest and melting the gate in one go.
           Some Dwarves managed to escape, including Thrór, King under the Mountain, and his son and grandson. However, those left behind were not as lucky, and fell prey to the engulfing hell around them. Once satisfied, Smauglock slithered through the tunnels and chambers of the Lonely Mountain, the mines once utilized by the royalty of Durin to gain their immense wealth. It was in the heart of the mountain, that Smauglock found perhaps the only thing that could soothe a broken dragon. Deep, tall, glittering piles of gold, so vast in nature, that it was impossible for even the tallest of drakes to see over. Until that very moment, Smauglock had never understood his race’s fascination with riches. But now, now Smauglock understood everything from hate to gold and everything in between, and it was he who was King under the Mountain. He threw himself in his grief into his gold, and there he was to sleep for centuries to come.
The wind was on the withered heath,
but in the forest stirred no leaf:
there shadows lay by night and day,
and dark things silent crept beneath.
The wind came down from mountains cold,
and like a tide it roared and rolled;
the branches groaned, the forest moaned,
and leaves were laid upon the mould.
The wind went on from West to East;
all movement in the forest ceased,
but shrill and harsh across the marsh
its whistling voices were released.
The grasses hissed, their tassles bent,
the reeds were rattling -- on it went
o'er shaken pool under the heavens cool
where racing clouds were torn and rent.
It passed the lonely Mountain bare
and swept above the dragon's lair:
there black and dark lay boulders stark
and flying smoke was in the air.
It left the world and took its flight
over the wide seas of the night,
The moon set sail upon the gale,
and stars were fanned to leaping light.




{Song and majority of characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, others belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle}