The moment he hears the shot, he feels his heart drop into his stomach. He knows what's happened, but he won't accept the reality. He won't. If he denies it, she might be fine, he might find her with her wings extended on both sides, flames spilling from between her jaws. He knows the chances of that are slim to none, but he hopes and prays to Iluvatar that the odds are in his favor. Despite the fact that he knows whats happened, that there's no hope, he can't stop his legs from pumping and his heart from pounding in his ears

He sprints as fast as he can, nearly toppling over as he rounds the corner and finds her sprawled on the ground, wings crumpled and no doubt broken behind her. Inside her chest, a black arrow is buried, pinning her to the ground so that an elf can finish the deed. There's a knife lifted in it's hand and it's hunched over her lifting the weapon to slam it into her heart. He lets out a roar and slams into the elf, knocking it off balance, but not for long. The Silvan flees for its life, apparently having lost its bravery after being faced with the possibility of two dragons. As it runs, he pays it no mind, turning instead to the near ashen dragoness on the ground.

Her skin, once as dark as the night she hid herself in, is little more than grey now, and riddled with gashes. Her wrists are raw from being bound, as are her ankles. Her ribs protrude from her flesh and it's clear she hasn't eaten in over a year. They'd had her locked up somewhere before she'd been hit. Smaug falls to his knees and gathers her up in his arms. She doesn't cry out as he moves her, doesn't even wince. Every fragile bone in her wings has been crumbled, her eyes have been poisoned, they took her horns from her. They have made her low in every way imaginable, as if being mortal was not enough of a punishment. Her skin is cold against his touch, nowhere in the low hundreds like it should have been. He feels the fear building in his belly as he realizes the inevitable.

"Smaug?"

The voice is weak and dry, but it comes from her nonetheless. She's staring up at him with half-lidded, cloudy eyes. He knows she can't see him. The pain she's in must be immense, but shock has probably long since stopped pain signals from her mind.

"Please, is anyone there?"

"I'm here, love."

Her head turns to the sound of his voice, rough with the effort of trying to force back tears.

"I'm here."

Her hands reach out and clasp the front of his armor, fingers slipping underneath the plates and resting on his heart. Even as she does he shivers from the chill her fingers give off. Her fire was dying. He cradles her head against his arms, his palm pressed against her face in comfort she can't feel. They sit in silence for a moment before he reaches down and pulls the black arrow from her chest. She jerks slightly as it's removed, golden blood leaking from the wound.

"I'm going to die."

She states this quietly, her voice shuddering slightly at the end. She was afraid. She was going to die alone in the cold and the dark, unable to feel or even see her love. He violently denies this, rejecting the statement almost as soon as she utters it.

"Gostír, I swear to you by the hearts of Glaurung, you will not die here today."

"It's not up to you, Smaug."

"It was! If I had gotten here sooner-"

"It's not your fault, love. You didn't know"

He felt like it was, though. He should have seen the signs that she'd been taken sooner. He should have noticed her absence and hunted her down, smiting whatever foolish creature stepped into his path. He bends over and kisses her forehead as her breathing grows more shallow.

"Everything will be alright, I promise."

Gostír lets her lids slide shut as she struggles for air.

"I'm not ready to go."

Smaug gathers her battered body closer to him, so much smaller than his own now, hushing her. He couldn't save her. She was going to die here. Three thousand years, and all it took was a single wound from a black arrow to undo her. Mortality was a cruel, cold mistress. Minutes seep by in what feels like hours, and she grows colder still in his arms, smoke curling away from her as the last sparks of her flame die out. In the distance he can hear Ancalagon gathering his soldiers to himself and his name is among those shouted, but he won't leave her. Not when she's this close.

"Will..." She breathes out, struggling to form words. "Will you stay with me?"

"Always."

"It's just like falling asleep, Smaug. Just like falling..." Her body shudders violently for a second before going completely slack, embers floating lazily from her mouth. As soon as she's gone, the emptiness and sorrow is replaced by a burning rage that astounds even him. He burns her body on a funeral pyre, as is their custom to do with a fallen warrior, and begins his hunt. The smell of the elf is still fresh and he follows it, wings outstretched as he hurls himself into the air.

He would bring death to those who'd done this.

There would be fire.

There would be death.

Thanks for reading my first story, you guys! Okay, for some background info: That elf who stabbed Gostír is Thranduil. Smaug's gonna find him and burn him, resulting in the scars we see in DOS. Gostír is an actual dragon mentioned by Tolkien, but nothing is known about it except for its name. Anywho, R&R, please?