The vast scarred flanks of the Grey Mountains stretched out before him, with their towering peaks that seemed to scrape the sky, save where their immenseness was hidden from view by the gathering clouds. From east to west they ranged, as far as the eye could see, until they faded into dark blurs at either horizon.

Gimli, son of Glóin, huffed, resettling his pack more comfortably upon his shoulders. It would take him an Age or more to search all of these mountains, but he did not have an Age to spend. His father expected him to return with a month with news of the progress of their new trade route down the River Running and then back up the River Carnen. The merchant company Glóin ran was all the more prosperous now that their people were resettled in Erebor, particularly due to the fame that the Quest had brought to Glóin's name, but that fame did not extend to his only son.

He should be pleased; a solo trader journey at only eighty-two years old was sure to earn him prestige indeed. And the hospitality of the men of Dale was renowned these days, not to mention the small mountain of letters and gifts piled in his pack for their kin in the Iron Hills that he was honour-bound to deliver. But this was his only chance to test his idea, to bring back an even greater prize for the Dwarves of Erebor.

Of course, it was strictly forbidden. And foolish, very foolish.

"A merchant's job is to provide." Glóin had told him once. "Not just for our family, but for all our people. They rely on us to take their goods to markets for them, to get them the best deals. They rely on us to bring in more supplies when stocks are running low, and to ensure our people need never go without. What would we do if we could not speak with our brothers and sisters in Blue Mountains, or the Iron Hills? We could not survive without merchants, my son, and people will respect you for it, just as much as a warrior or a smith."

A determined grin stretched across the young Dwarf's face. He would do his family proud, and add to the wealth of Erebor besides. Not by creating yet another ferrying messages to the Iron Hills, or gifting more bribes to the Men of Dale for use of their lands. But by finding and securing a source of something rare and valuable, which in the right hands could be worth as much as gold or mithril.

Obsidian.

Normally found only in areas around active volcanoes, obsidian was highly prized by Dwarven smiths. Not only because it was rare, but because, in the right hands, it could create an edge three times sharper than steel. The older smiths of Erebor were forever lamenting its scarcity, for they greatly desired to experiment with the elusive rock. They had tried, for decades now, to recreate the processes that occurred to form obsidian naturally, but had always failed, even with the superior forges of Erebor.

But what they had failed to consider, the realisation that had brought him to the northern edges of their world, was that there was yet one thing that burned hotter than their forges, that was more accessible than the volcanoes of Mordor and the South.

For there was a reason why in the old tales that they called it dragonglass.

*.*.*.*

Gimli paused, hauling himself up onto a ledge to catch his breath. The Grey Mountains had proved more hostile to travellers than he'd anticipated, he thought wistfully as he inspected the plethora of small cuts he'd accumulated on his ascent. He hadn't realised that there would not be good paths left over from when Dwarves had lived in this range, nor how much climbing he would have to do. He had to be very careful not to stray too far East as well, for that way lay the Withered Heath, where it was said that dragons still lived. He was not looking for a live dragon, thank you very much. But an old lair, a series of caves where they had once dwelt or, better yet, nested would be perfect. There he would find his prize.

The wind gusted hard and he shivered as it tugged at his beard. He shuffled back further from the edge of the ledge. It was a very long way back down, and he did not intend to find himself back on the ground by the short way. Still, despite the unwelcoming weather, it brought him a familiar comfort to be surrounded by mountains once more. Unlike many of his kin, he had been born and raised in the Blue Mountains, not in Erebor. The Lonely Mountain was an excellent place to live, and certainly, when it had been reclaimed by the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, he had rejoiced and had been eager to move to his ancestral home. But it was, well, a single mountain. Nothing quite compared to the sight and majesty of a full mountain range.

He yawned, tugging off his pack. It was growing late and he was exhausted. It was better to rest now and start off again in the morning. He'd spotted a likely cave entrance not too much higher up, but it was far too treacherous a path to attempt in the dark. He was no Elf to be scrambling around in the night, glowing like a star. He needed food and rest and light, like any sensible Dwarf.

However, just as he had successfully extracted his blanket from his pack, there came a low rumble. Gimli paused, wary, and looked up to the sky for signs of thunderclouds. But the sky remained clear, save for the few summer-white clouds that had snagged themselves on the jagged peaks. The rumble came again, louder now, and loose chips of shale began rattling past his ledge.

Then came a great cracking sound, a ragged scream of rock shearing under great stress. Gimli could only stare in mute horror as a fissure split across the side of the mountain, mere feet from his ledge. Rocks began sliding past him with increasing frequency and the mountain shook under the strain.

A great roaring came from the fissure, shaking the mountain harder. Gimli's vision blurred as, in one terrifying instant, he was shaken loose from his tiny ledge and found himself tumbling into the darkness below.

*.*.*.*

Gimli let out a low groan as he slowly became aware of the world again. He took a deep painful breath, letting his eyes open slowly. Everything hurt. Even blinking hurt. But he was, somehow, not dead.

Above him, he could see only a narrow strip of sky splitting through the rock. The stars glittered coldly in the deep dark of the night, their light bringing him little comfort. How long had he been unconscious for? Hours at the very least. He whispered a quiet fervent thanks to Mahal for making Dwarves as sturdy as He had; if he had been of a more fragile race, he would definitely be dead by now.

As it was, he was still in desperate trouble. Just how far had he fallen? No, better question, how would he get out again? He had a month to return to his father, yes, but what would happen if he failed to return? His people would look for him on the roads leading south or east, towards the Iron Hills, not to the north, in a mountain range that he should never have been anywhere near, not to mention, that also happened to be forbidden.

Foolish, stone-headed, dwarfling!

Gimli groaned again, slowly and painfully persuading his body to, at the very least, sit up. He needed to find his pack. He needed water above all, for without it, he would not be able to clean the dirt from his wounds, and risk infection. Or, more alarmingly, he would simply die of thirst in a week or so. Both possibilities were alarming, but he put them to one side. He could not afford to panic. He needed to consider this with a clear head. His pack would have rope in it - he might be able to climb his way out, carefully, provided that the fissure was not too high above him. He would not be able to tell for certain until the morning.

At least he didn't seem to have broken anything. He ached abominably, more fiercely so in his head, his back and his right ankle, but it was manageable. He heaved himself upright, and swore loudly as the pain in his ankle intensified, a sudden blinding agony that sent his vision spinning. He swore again, spitting curses as he forced himself to take a few unsteady steps. He staggered as the world spun more erratically and forced him to stop, leaning on a boulder to retch up his last meal.

He wiped his mouth and hobbled a few more steps and the spinning, thankfully, eased away. There was simply nothing for it, he absolutely could not put his full weight on that ankle. A nuisance to be sure, but not the greatest threat to his survival.

That would be the lack of water, came the unhelpful reminder. Or if this hole connects to Goblin-tunnels.

He shuffled around in the dark, groping in the gaps between rocks for his pack. Dust covered everything, and more often than not, he found himself wheezing when he accidentally disturbed it. But there was no way to avoid it, nor the pain in his ankle, save for the breaks he was forced to take more and more often.

But after hours of fruitless searching, only his axe had he found, mercifully with blade intact, although the handle had cracked, but of his pack he found no sign and now he was too exhausted to continue. Letting out a small hiss of pain, he sank to the ground, leaning against a boulder for support. He licked his dry lips and yawned. In the morning, he told himself, in the morning everything would be better.

*.*.*.*

Gimli awoke to the sound of thunder, reverberating impossibly loud all around him. He jerked, instinctively scrambling for cover, even as his mind struggled through the fog of sleep to full alertness. Stifling a cry of pain as he moved his ankle too abruptly, and pressed himself further into the gap between the boulders as he looked for the source of the noise.

Morning light filled the crevice he had fallen into, throwing everything into soft golden light. During the night he had not been able to tell, but it seemed that his crevice was actually part of a short natural corridor, which curved away. The noise, he guessed, was coming from somewhere beyond the bend, out of his line of sight. Given how much it had echoed, there must be a large cavern at the other end, perhaps even, a way out. He hesitated, uncertain of investigating, for the sound his sleeping mind had mistaken for thunder, seemed far too…alive. Like a thousand bats taking flight at once.

Or perhaps something far worse.

Did he really have a choice? He could stay in this narrow dead-end, alone and injured, without supplies; or he could hobble his way through to the other cavern in the hopes of finding another exit. He thought of his father, and of his mother, and of how if he died here they would never know what had happened to him. His body would never be properly returned to the Stone. He would die in the dark, and his bones would be left undisturbed in this hole forever.

Resolve filled him, fierce and hot. He would not. He was of the House of Durin, and if he were to die, then let it be on his own two feet, weapon in hand. Let him fight for every breath, just to take another step further. He would not lie down and die!

Struggling to his feet, Gimli placed one hand on the rough stone walls for support. There was still no sign of his pack, even with the light, but for all he knew it was now crushed under the rocks, flattened and useless. He certainly did not have the strength to look for it. He had to go on.

Step by hobbling step, he inched his way into the corridor, letting the walls guide him. The air was mustier in the corridor and the dust was thicker. But curiously, as he drew closer to the light at the other end of the curve, the rough stone became smoother, a far more familiar texture as if someone had sanded it down and polished it. His heart leapt, a small flutter of hope. Could it be that Dwarves had made this tunnel once? Could they perhaps be living here still?

He blinked, squinting as the light became much brighter. Whatever was in this cavern, it was certainly more open to the elements. He could feel a gentle breeze disturbing his beard, and the air was certainly becoming fresher. He limped forward more eagerly. Water. He could smell water, and oddly, grass.

But in his eagerness, his foot caught a slick section of the floor, and he fell hard. Yelping as he fell, his momentum carried forward, sending him tumbling head over heels into the cavern ahead.

*.*.*.*

When Gimli's awareness crept back to him, he was sprawled on the ground of a large open space, slowly registering the pain of his ankle redoubling and the dull ache in his back where he'd hit the ground, and of a building headache. He blinked dimly as his vision blurred and steadied.

An eye stared back, faceted and glittering as a pure cut aquamarine jewel, set in a face that gleamed like polished citrine. Impossibly long teeth took the place of the eye, each the length of Gimli's forearm, if not more. The dragon inhaled deeply, and then pulled back, staring down at him, head cocked, cat-like pupils narrowed to a slits. There was no malice in those gleaming depths, indeed it seemed almost…curious.

There are two times when absolute stillness is required, his mother had told him as a small dwarfling. The first is when someone upsets a horde of angry Elves and hiding is the best option (she'd shot his father an oddly pointed look then, and he had wondered at the story behind the comment). The second is when you find yourself nose to nose with a very large dragon and you do not wish to find yourself eaten - dragons, she'd explained patiently, were commonly short-sighted, but like hunting eagles, were attracted by sudden movement and changes in scents.

Gimli held his breath, bracing himself for the rush of intense heat, or the snapping of wicked teeth that would end his too-short life. The tension that sang through through his body was almost a physical pain in itself, but he forced himself to remain still. But no fire, claws or teeth ever came. The creature, instead, gave an almost dismissive snort, looking almost unimpressed, as Gimli scrambled back as best he could, ignoring the pain in his ankle as he regained his feet. He grabbed his axe from his belt, wobbling unsteadily on his one good leg, taking in the monster before him.

Although it was easily three times his size, sleek and leanly proportioned, now that he saw it more clearly, it seemed small by the standards of the dragons in his elders' stories. Its scales were pale gold, like the colour of sulphur, gleaming in the pale sunlight that filtered down from the gap in the cavern roof. Perhaps, against all odds, he had found a dragon youngling, a drake, not yet grown to adulthood. If he was even luckier, he'd found a cold-drake, and would simply have to tangle with its claws and teeth, rather than flaming breath.

The dragon cocked its head, as if studying him just as he was studying it, and then gave a massive pointed yawn, before shuffling away. Gimli let out a strangled breath, the knot of terror in his chest easing just a little, giving way to a rather hysterical laugh. He hastily clapped a hand to his mouth, but the dragon did not seem to notice.

Well…he had found what he'd been looking for, in a roundabout fashion. He was in a dragon's lair.

*.*.*.*

The hours that followed that first meeting were fraught with tension and no small amount of fear. But when the dragon showed no sign of moving, nor any particular inclination to eat him, Gimli began to explore his surroundings.

The cavern was not overly large, certainly not all that suitable for a growing dragon. The open roof had given nature an opportunity that it had seized with a vengeance - every rock was overgrown with moss and grass, he had even spotted several trees, bizarrely and stubbornly twisting their way up through the stonework and cracking it wide open with their roots. The dragon's nest was in the centre of it all, near a small pool of water (he called it small, but in truth, he suspected that if he approached it, he would find that it would be deep enough to submerge him), directly underneath the open sky. His wings hung awkwardly as the beast circled in place, like an overgrown cat before a fire, before it lay down, making a noise, strangely like a grumble.

There was no sign of the devastation that dragons normally wrought to their surroundings, no foul stench, or animal corpses. There were no piles of gold or jewels, no treasure trove at all to speak of. If not for that fact that he was looking at the creature with his own two eyes, he would not have thought a dragon lived here at all.

The only time the beast stirred itself even in the slightest was when Gimli drew too close to it. No matter which direction he approached from, once he was within five feet of it, the monster would let out a low rumbling growl and a great blue eye would flash open in warning. The only exception was when Gimli finally limped to the pool to drink, carefully, inspecting the water first before even daring to touch it. In that instance the dragon had only watched him, unmoving and cold.

Now Gimli sat, cold and hungry and stiff, against the wall furthest away from the dragon as he could. He did not dare start a fire, and even if he had, he had no food to cook. He could have retreated to the hole he'd first fallen into, but he did not trust that there would not be a second rock fall while he slept. The dragon had slept through the majority of the day as he'd explored, but now it was awake again, staring at him with those baleful blue eyes.

Gimli shivered, hugging his knees closer to his chest. His ankle ached so fiercely and he was exhausted. How he longed to be around his people once more, instead of sharing a cavern with a creature that all the world held in enmity.

"What is it you want with me?" he whispered, unintentionally aloud. "Why have you spared me?"

The dragon, as if in response, gave a small sigh and closed its eyes once more and returned to ignoring him.

*.*.*.*

A uneasy truce settled over the cavern as the days trickled past painfully slowly. There was little to occupy the Dwarf, so he settled with making himself a small shelter - moving around any boulders he felt able to carry and gathering up fallen branches from the trees. He'd raised his axe to one of the trees just once and the snarl that had provoked had been enough to terrify a few premature grey hairs into his beard.

He'd returned, more than once, to the other cave around the bend. It was hard work, but he was painstakingly beginning to clear some of the smaller boulders away, hoping to find some sign of his pack. He did, at one point, uncover a nest of spiders, which had solved his food problem for a short while. After that, he'd unbent his pride just enough to scrounge in the dark and the sparse soils for bugs to eat.

Better to eat bugs than to die from pride.

The dragon, for the most part, was simply content to watch him or sleep. It rarely stirred itself to actual movement, save to shuffle to the pool to lap at the water and then back to its grassy nest. But so far, it had not taken flight or left the cavern to hunt. And Gimli, despite himself, was beginning to wonder why.

It was a strange dragon, he thought. All the stories he'd heard as a child agreed that dragons were wickedly intelligent creatures, narcissistically pleased to speak with and taunt their prey. And as the story of Bilbo Baggins demonstrated, they had a great love of puzzles and riddles. But this dragon had not spoken to him, not even once.

Gimli, on the other hand, had found himself speaking aloud from time to time. He was not, by any means, trying to strike up a conversation with the silent dragon; it was more that the overwhelming lack of noise around him was beginning to unnerve him.

*.*.*.*

"Aha!" Gimli's triumphant cry echoed around the cavern, far louder than he'd intended. The dragon jerked awake, letting out a hiss of displeasure at the noise, flattening his ears and narrowing his eyes.

"Apologies," Gimli inclined his head slightly towards the dragon, but his excited grin could not be contained by the solemnity needed for a proper apology. "But what a thing I have discovered!"

He gestured to the large rock that he had been studiously scraping moss from for the last hour. Moss, he'd discovered, made excellent bedding in a pinch, and there was certainly an abundance of it. And for once, the dragon had not protested to his actions, given that he had been sleeping and Gimli had not been inclined to wake him to ask permission.

The dragon gave a stretch, yawning, as he got to his feet. Gimli thought, perhaps, that the dragon was going to ignore him once more and return to sleep, but instead, he made his way over to the boulder, crouching down flat so as to be eye-level with Gimli. It was the first time the dragon had shown even a semblance of true interest in what Gimli had been saying to him.

How considerate.

He might have been offended, but he was simply too excited to mind overmuch. He gestured to the now moss-free section of the boulder he'd cleared.

"You see? I had thought that this rock seemed too conveniently placed, that the shape of it was too edged to be natural. It is simply too clean-cut." He ran his hands over the stone, tracing the deep cut runes he'd uncovered, as familiar to him as if he'd found his own name. "This was, indeed, a Dwarven place once."

Now that he was looking for it, he could see how these pillars might have once stretched up to connect to the roof, spaced as they were for the necessary supports. There was little other sign of his kin so far, but the hall was very overgrown.

"These words are very old," he explained. "Especially given how overgrown they were. None of my kin have lived here for centuries for certain - but I cannot help but wonder if they remain nearby. Not lightly do Durin's folk abandon their homes and halls." He looked at the dragon with a frown, who in turn, nosed the mossy pillar gently and then returned to his grassy bed.

How long have you been here? He wondered, watching the dragon go. Had there been Dwarves living here when the dragon descended to claim this hall? Had he driven them from hearth and forge, as Smaug had done in Erebor? Or had it simply been coincidence; that these halls had been abandoned long ago, and had become a convenient dragon-den.

But what stuck with him, keeping him awake even when night fell, was the thought of how perhaps this hall might connect to others, and from there, to his freedom.

*.*.*.*

"I am sick of eating mealworms, Uslukh," Gimli complained one evening, poking miserably at the dead worms he'd gathered into a crudely carved bowl. He did not have a fire to cook them over, as Uslukh, for whatever strange reason, would not permit it.

The dragon, whom he'd named Uslukh, simply for the sake of having something to call the dratted thing, yawned pointedly, as if to say well what do you want me to do about it?

"You are a dragon," Gimli retorted. "It would be a simple task for you to fetch a deer or such, would it not?"

Uslukh rattled his wings and hissed. It was a distinctive rattle, like that of an angry snake, often used when he seemed to be offended by something Gimli had said. Very different from the hiss that meant 'be quiet' and the one that indicated amusement.

By Mahal, he'd been here too long. A little over two weeks of living off grubs and worms and trying not to step on a dragon's toes, both literally and figuratively. He'd started losing weight already, and not entirely due to the dragon related stress. If he didn't find a way out of here soon, he'd still starve to death.

Uslukh raised his golden head, eyes fixed upon something above them. Gimli squinted up as well, but short-sighted as he was, he could not make out what had caught the dragon's attention - Uslukh, despite what Gimli had been taught as a child, seemed to have excellent distance vision. His tail began to swish lightly against the grass, twitching in anticipation.

A great gout of fire burst forth from his jaws, roaring straight up into the sky in a fury of red and gold. Gimli swore profusely, screwing up his eyes at the intense brightness and throwing up his arms to protect his face from the sudden heat, his bowl of mealworms clattering to the ground. And then, as abruptly as it had come, the fire ceased and Uslukh gave a small, self-satisfied snort.

"Durin's beard!" Gimli spat, lowering his arms, blinking to try and clear his vision of the fiery afterimages. "You dratted dragon, you might have given some warning first! You might have roasted me alive—"

His furious tirade was cut short as a small blackened shape abruptly plummeted into the cave, hitting the ground with a sizzle, and continued to smoke. Gimli approached it cautiously, dumbfounded, and nudged it with the hilt of his axe. A bird? It was burned to a crisp, but still mostly recognisable.

"Did you…?" Gimli looked from the bird to the dragon in confusion. Uslukh had settled his head back down on his forelegs, a very smug gleam in his eyes. Well, he had asked for meat, and Uslukh, in his own peculiar fashion, had provided.

Though how he was meant to pluck a bird after roasting was beyond him…

*.*.*.*

While Uslukh's hall would be considered large by a Man's standards (and certainly of a good size by a Dwarf's) after three weeks trapped between it and the narrow tunnel and pit where he'd first fallen, Gimli was beginning to feel the walls cramped indeed.

Most often he spent his time in the main hall; he frequently paced the edges, looking for some sign of a hidden door, or a crack in the walls, that might indicate another passage, or else busied himself clearing the pillars and other ruins that lay scattered. The smaller cave, having cleared what rocks he could on his own, he did not return to often, in most part because it was dark and cramped, and its rough-hewn walls suggested that it had been formed naturally, rather than carved out by his kin.

His pack, he was now quite certain, was utterly lost. Likely buried beneath a mile of snow on the mountainside above him, or else crushed flat beneath the boulders he did not have the strength to move. Whenever he thought of it, he felt a twinge of shame and regret at his failed duty to his people - but he did not let such feelings consume him, for all it would be shameful to return in his failure, it was still better than never returning at all.

His ankle, at the least, seemed to be much better. The incredible pain had quickly faded with rest, and he no longer limped when he walked. Some evenings, when he lay exhausted upon his bed of moss and leaves, it would ache dull and distantly, but for the most part, it felt much improved.

Uslukh, too, seemed brighter and somehow less feral. The dragon did not spend most of his days sleeping now, and though he did not leave the hall, he did continue to fire birds out of the sky on occasion for Gimli's sake. Certainly, his faceted eyes, sparkling gem-like, watched Gimli with avid curiosity most hours, and he often made almost conversational noises, as if to indicate that he was listening whenever Gimli began to lecture him on Dwarven history, or something new he had discovered in the hall.

But never did he speak, and that was simply one more mystery that Gimli shrugged off as simply never to be solved.

*.*.*.*

Gimli settled himself onto one of the shorn pillars, looking up at the broad swathe of night sky that glittered brightly above them. The moon was just peeking into view, half full and pale, but it was light enough for dwarf and dragon. Uslukh had, for once, stirred himself from his nest to curl around the pillar, his great head eye-level with Gimli. The dragon gave a low, mournful croon.

"You speak for me also, Uslukh. How I wish to be out there." He sighed, seeking out the familiar constellations his aunts had taught him long ago. He had not paid much heed then, but now he thought he recognised a few. "What will my people think if I should never return? If I had great wings like yours, I would be free to leave, but alas, I am grounded and thereby trapped. You could not understand, I suppose, free as you are to come and go."

Uslukh snorted, a rush of steam escaping from his nostrils. He shuffled his wings, a noisy affair, but made no attempt to take flight. Gimli looked at him with a frown. Now that he considered it, he had never seen the dragon in flight, nor even with wings outstretched.

"But are you truly free?" Gimli wondered aloud, still frowning. "A month I have shared this hall with you, and you have remained here when you could have gone. Why do you linger?"

But Uslukh's attention was no longer on him; instead his gaze had sharpened as he stared at the sky, his head swaying to and fro, his tail thudding against the stone, and a terrible sound, like a growl, rumbled in him. Gimli turned back to look, scanning the stretch of sky above them, but he could see little but the stars and few wisps of cloud.

And then he heard it: a dreadful roaring, echoing across the night.

Gimli did his best not to shiver as a sudden fear washed over him. He would not shy away if it came to battle, nor run and hide like a craven, but deep in his heart, he was afraid. It would be folly not to be, and indeed, how could anyone not be afraid when faced with so dangerous a foe? He was geared for a merchant's journey, not for dragonfire and war. His axe would do him little good against dragon's scales, for all he had told himself when he had first met Uslukh.

The roar came again, louder still, and the mountain itself trembled. Uslukh raised his head, his wings mantling, as he gave an answering roar, so loud that Gimli shrank away, covering his ears even as the noise shook him down to his bones.

Then like thunder came the flapping of colossal wings and another dragon appeared in the sky above them, impossibly huge. Gimli whispered curses under his breath, unable to look away from the beast that hovered in the night sky; this new dragon seemed to be far far larger than Uslukh, even to his near-sighted eyes, and the pale moonlight washed its scales to silver. It roared again, and then let loose a blast of fire so violent, it burned white and blue in places.

Uslukh snarled, wisps of flame curling about his bared teeth. A shudder ran through him, and he thrashed his tail. Then, just as Gimli realised what was about to happen, the young dragon leapt into the air. He was clumsy at first, and there was little majesty about his flight, it had none of the effortless grace of the elder dragon above. But still, he drove himself upwards, breathing fire and challenge at the intruder.

For a moment, the two faced each other in the air, staring the other down - then the intruder dragon dove towards Uslukh and the pair met in a furious clashing of teeth and claws, fire staining the dark sky as they battled. They soared and dove together, never straying far from their opponent. And to Gimli's dismay, the battle drove them further and further away from the mountain, until they were gone from his sight.

And he was alone, trapped on the ground, unable to help.

*.*.*.*

Three days passed without so much as a glimmer of pale yellow scales in the distance. On more than one occasion, Gimli thought he heard the distant thunder of dragon-roars, but whenever he stopped to listen, he heard naught at all. Those days were far harder than Gimli would ever admit aloud; but in his secret heart, he knew that he had become used to the young dragon's presence, for all it seemed strange, and now he missed him. And in truth, he was afraid of what would become of him, left utterly alone and trapped as he was.

But still he would not allow despair to consume him. He forced himself to rise each morning, spending a short while sitting atop the tallest pillar he could climb, watching the sun creep into view as he pretended he was not watching in hope of seeing Uslukh soar into view. Then he would shake himself and return to his daily tasks - gathering food, exploring the hall, investigating the ruins. He'd found a partial tunnel that ended in a cave-in that looked like it might be unnatural; it was common for Dwarves to deliberately collapse tunnels to seal off halls when they proved to be no longer of use to the people. Or if it had something dangerous living in it.

So it was that he was inside the partial tunnel, carefully examining the collapsed wall for how to dismantle it, when suddenly the mountain began to shake. He could hear the unmistakable scrape and screech of shearing rock. Another avalanche? He braced himself against the narrow walls, feeling the rumbling beneath his hands, setting his teeth to chattering uncontrollably. Gimli couldn't help but be uncomfortably reminded of the rockslide that had caused him to become trapped down here in the first place.

Pain washed over him, excruciating and abrupt, yet without a source that he could discover. It ripped through him, like fire burning through his veins, every muscle screaming in protest, and he would have screamed himself had he not been clenching his jaws so tightly that he feared his teeth might shatter. Then it was gone, as quickly as it had come. Gasping, he staggered out of the tunnel back into the main hall, scrubbing his eyes clear from the tears that had formed unbidden, and urging his unsteady legs onward.

The main hall was drastically changed: rocks littered the ground, several having struck the trees and pillars in their chaotic descent, leaving destruction in their wake; the jagged split in the roof had been widened in several places, splintering erratically in every direction; and in the middle of it all, was Uslukh.

The young dragon lay sprawled on his side, his ragged breathing echoing through the chamber, painfully laboured. Gimli, forgetting his own mysterious pain, rushed to his side. Uslukh did not react to his presence, letting out faint whimpers as his limbs twitched. He was in bad shape, that much was obvious - his pale golden scales were shredded in many places, ripped like cheap chainmail, leaving deep wounds in the hide below; Gimli could smell the awful scent of burnt flesh as well; one ear was almost ruined, as if someone had nearly torn it off.

"Uslukh," Gimli whispered, laying a hand on the only undamaged part of the dragon he could find. "Oh, Uslukh. I wish you had not gone." He was no healer, and the dragon's wounds were so severe. He had no idea where even to begin to attempt to save him. "Uslukh."

An aquamarine eye opened, slowly, clouded with pain. It stared blankly for a moment, and then settled on him with a strangely piercing clarity. A voice spoke, distant, strained, but clear.

"My name is not Uslukh."