The storm began early one morning with distant thunder and dark clouds. My father looked nervous; our gardener had just planted a rather fragile crop of flowers earlier that week, expecting that there would be little rain in the coming weeks, as was normal for that part of the year. My mother, on the other hand, seemed almost excited. She'd always loved the rain, I knew that; when I was very young she and I would bound through the rain and muddy our feet and our clothes, grinning and laughing while my father smiled from the window and made us hot tea to drink when we came inside. I don't think that either of them expected what the storm would bring with it, though—truly, no one could have.

I left home to buy the week's groceries and a new handful of the flower seeds in case the originals were washed away. The rain started mere moments after the door closed behind me and my mother and father both laughed at my luck, scrubbing my hair and offering me a plate for elevensies. We spent that day inside, watching the wicked storm tear through the Shire. It was the fiercest storm I'd ever seen, with lightning splitting the sky into countless pieces, and toys and flowerpots and branches flying by the window, clacking and crashing against the earth. The thunder was loud enough to shake Bag End, and a shadow passed over our house, darkening our view outside the window even further. None of us knew what it was, but all of us, even my ever-brave mother, were afraid when we heard it crash outside, only a bare few feet away.

They wouldn't let me go out with them to see what it was, but I heard their muffled yells of surprise, heard a low, rumbling noise that was like thunder but wasn't. I crept outside after them and only barely fought back a noise of my own fear.

A dragon lay in our yard, crushing the garden and all the equipment therein, its breath unsteady and labored. Its scales shimmered red and gold, black claws curling and uncurling in the dirt, and one of its wings draped limply at its side while the other twitched, almost flapping. I couldn't tell if its skin was slick with blood or rain or both and I edged a little closer—I knew it was hurt even if I knew nothing else.

"We have to help it," I said, my parents jolting at the sound of my voice, but they nodded at me even still. They'd wait until later to be angry with me for disobeying, I supposed, but for then there were greater things to worry over.

"There isn't much we can do for it in this weather, and it's not as if we can get it inside," my father murmured, my mother's hand on his arm as she watched the creature thoughtfully, as if thinking of a way we could get it inside even though it was larger than the whole of Bag End, much less the door.

"I am not an it," the creature hissed, slow and low and pained, "And I am not so weak as to be unable to still shift my shape." The pride in his voice was strange and almost out of place, but so obviously there that I could not ignore it. I watched his skin ripple, his massive body shrinking slowly, until at last a man-sized shape lay on the ground, nude and clutching at one bloody arm. I flushed but helped my parents get him to his feet and walk him inside. We sat him on father's chair and my father searched for blankets to wrap him in while my mother and I tried to tend to his arm.

He growled at us more than once, baring teeth just slightly too sharp to really be a man's, gold eyes flashing with pain and anger both. The nails of his good hand, pointed to claws, dug into the chair arm until bits of stuffing spilled forth. His skin felt too hot when I tried to hush him, but I didn't know if it was from fever or simply a side effect of the fire that burned in his chest. He accepted what little comfort I could offer, though, leaning into my hand when my mother did something that hurt, and he let my father wrap him in layers of blankets. I held my breath until at last the blood stopped flowing and my mother wrapped a tight bandage about his arm. My mother stepped away and I tried to follow, but he gripped my arm tightly and kept me still.

"Stay," he said, eyes freezing me where I crouched beside him, "Stay, and I will tell you of what brought me here. I can see that you are curious." I swallowed thickly, my parents shifting behind me, their eyes surely fixed on the clawed hand around my arm, and slowly, carefully, I nodded. The hand relaxed and I settled more comfortably beside the chair. He spoke slowly, voice rising and falling like an ocean, telling stories of where his life had been and his plans to find the richest mountain on Middle Earth. My parents stayed to listen to his tales as well, and the sound of his voice sent us all into a deep, restful sleep.

The next morning, he was gone, leaving only a small note written in sharp, scratchy Westron, thanking us for our help and promising to repay us as best he could. We never spoke of the dragon's visit to anyone, though we surely had enough questions as to how our yard came to be so ruined. I never forgot it, of course; after my mother and father died, and I was left in Bag End alone, it grew to be one of my most precious memories, the most exciting adventure I'd ever had.

Despite that, I had no reason to suspect that the dragon the dwarves spoke of was the same one that had crashed in the Shire on that fateful day. That didn't stop me from feeling like a fool when I crept into the treasury and saw him lying atop the mountain gold, somehow even more massive than he had been when first I saw him, golden eyes fixed on my face and a low laugh rumbling through my mind.