Work Text:
Smoke clouded Gerd's vision, tears coming unbidden from his eyes. While coughing, the odour of rotten carcasses sauntered into his nose and the glint of gold caught his eye. The roar came sudden, an earthquake of sound that made Gerd's bowels vibrate inside his belly.
A tongue of flame struck the stone close to him — Gerd could feel the fire with every inch of discovered skin. The ledge where he'd been propped up shattered and fell to the abyss below. Fear seized him, yet Gerd made his best attempt at disguising a wail.
"Gods save me!"
He failed, true enough.
Amidst the haze of smoke and the blurry sheen of gold, Gerd saw despite himself twin suns made of red fire, burning like eternal embers. A warmth that soothed rather than seared spread out from them, and Gerd knew then not to fear. His hauberk clinked as he rose. He checked for his dagger, but it had banished from his belt after the fall, or even earlier.
Another tongue of flame shot upwards. Stones the size of him fell to the floor of the cave. This time, Gerd saw the silhouette — the size of a mountain, perhaps, or bigger. Gerd couldn't help the mix of awe and terror that congealed in his heart. Horns sprouted from its head, and spikes ran down its back. The wings Gerd didn't chance to see, though doubtless they would've struck him dumb with their perfection.
Beyond himself with lunacy, Gerd cried, "Great dragon!"
The floor rumbled and cracked when the scaly beast trampled it with a clawed paw.
"I seek not quarrel with you, but only aid! I've been lost searching for my party!"
Another paw, yet another rumble. Cracks spread like treebranches through the frail floor of the cave.
The smoke began to clear out. Scales shone in green, blue, and gray hues, and Gerd could not help the gasp that stumbled from his lips. The dragon saw him. A growl grew louder in the back of the great beast's throat — Gerd's wonderment switched over to panic in an instant. That day wouldn't be his end, but he wasn't so much a fool as to believe he had any chance against the beast.
The best course, Gerd surmised, was to run away. With most of the smoke gone, the gold below the dragon's belly shone as bright as any torch. Left of the gilded hoard, with smatterings here and there of rubies and diamonds, of crowns and torques, a gaping hole in the cold blue stone greeted Gerd like an old friend.
The dragon caught Gerd's sprint as soon as the man set a foot forward. It was fire that the great beast breathed, but this time muted, like a sentry struggling to kindle a blaze. Thinking himself spared by the gods themselves, Gerd scurried away toward the rocky exit. The dragon tried to breath fire again, but failed.
Gerd had almost gotten out of the dragon's lair, probably down a gallery and hopefully in the direction of the outside world and finally towards his party, when a scabbard landed at his side. His dagger's scabbard, spit-sodden, the golden thread embroidered in the boiled leather seared away. He bent down to inspect it. The saliva that clung to his hands was the dragon's, true enough.
Afterwards, Gerd found himself certain of the whereabouts of his dagger. The dragon spat a hairball as big as a full-grown bull on the wet cave-floor, and soon he went to retch again. A blade came this time, shining bright. The dagger was no impressive weapon, probably forged in a village by a drunken blacksmith, but its hilt was of oak and its pommel a portly letter G. The dagger was Gerd's, true enough.
The dragon looked at Gerd with colossal eyes that shone as red as two suns. A low rumble came from its throat, as loud as a company's march. If Gerd hadn't known any better, he would've guessed the dragon was purring in satisfaction.
Gerd grabbed his dagger and sheathed it. The dragon turned away, his immense scaled body a myth turned flesh, and laid down to rest. Within seconds, loud snores filled the cave, and Gerd escaped the dragon's lair through the gaping rocky exit.
Nobody in his party would believe him if he told them what happened. Not the elf Dárian, so blonde that her hair sometimes reminded Gerd of freshly fallen snow, the great-sword Dawn strapped to her back, so heavy none other than her could lift it. Nor would the orc Burguk believe him, the one with hands as deft as have ever graced a thief, wits as sharp as Dawn, and legs fast as a whip, should any of his targets be aware of his presence overearly. Definitely not the halfling Jobul, who had told them stories of men, elves, dwarves, halflings, and orcs preyed upon by winged beasts one met only in nightmares. And certainly, not himself.