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“How on Arda did the kings of old manage such a large kingdom?”
Aragorn once again found himself uttering the phrase that had all but become a curse during his first year upon the throne. It was a very real problem he’d all too quickly encountered, as while his seat within Gondor at Minas Tirith was secure, the outer reaches of the Reunited Kingdoms was proving… difficult to govern.
Not for lack of trying, already he’d appointed a northern governor from within the ranks of the Dúnedain, and while Avalômi was doing an admirable job at keeping the kingdom running in his absence, it was proving hard to keep the northern reaches from crumbling at the edges.
He needed a solution, and travelling the roads for almost two months straight every time there was a major disagreement, wasn’t it.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have any alternate ideas.
Fortunately, he might know someone who did.
Abandoning the half-written edict on his desk, Aragorn went in search of Gandalf. True he was intending to leave Middle Earth shortly, but perhaps he would have one last insight to share. It didn’t take long to find the wizard, comfortably ensconced within the extensive archives of the Citadel.
“Mithrandir,” he greeted, and chose not to beat around the bush, “do you have any insight as to how the kings of old managed the kingdoms? It will take months for me to travel to its furthest reaches, and while I trust Faramir’s Stewardship, I cannot be gone for such extended periods of time.”
The White Wizard didn’t reply instantly, instead he settled back within his chair, puffing the long-stemmed pipe in deep thought. Brows creased and clear grey eyes staring into the distance as though he was combing his memory for any answers to the posed question.
“I was not there to witness it,” he answered ponderously after much thought, “I do, however, recall tales of fearsome winged beasts that the Kings of Gondor had once tamed and brought under their command. You’ve seen a few of them yourself, ridden by the servants of the Dark Lord…”
“The Nazgul fell-beasts? The hell-hawks?” Aragorn exclaimed. “That… is not ideal.”
“Hell-hawks? A crude name but not inaccurate, I suppose. They were once known by another name; the angulócë.”
The Quenya word hung in the air between them, and Aragorn found himself staring at the wizard in outright confusion. Not from lack of knowledge, but from understanding. He knew that word, had heard it in the old lays and ancient tales of bygone days.
“Dragons?”
“Dragons.” Gandalf seemed most amused by his stunned reaction but hastened on to explain further. “In a manner of speaking, these are smaller in build, more nimble and agile in flight, but also considerably less intelligent or sly compared to their distant cousin the Great Worm Smaug. They’re selective in choosing their riders, as history speaks of them only accepting riders of nobility.”
“Such as kings of old.”
“Indeed.”
“And…” Aragorn was reluctant to ask, reluctant to broach this line of conversation at all, but if he was to maintain and uphold the realm he found himself king of, then this was something he needed to know. “Where, exactly, can these beasts be found?”
The smile that spread across Gandalf’s features was anything but reassuring.
Fortunately –or perhaps unfortunately– Gandalf knew exactly where the angulócë could be found, and much to Aragorn’s concern, it was scarcely a day’s ride out.
“Minas Morgul doesn’t seem likely to be their home,” he commented dryly, frowning up at the fortress and its sickly green walls and jagged black iron fortifications. “How could they be kept here? The Nazgul would have set them upon us at once?”
“They do not reside within the fortress, but the entrance to their lair is accessed within.”
That made more sense, but it did little to settle Aragorn’s concern over having great winged beasts a stone’s throw from Minas Tirith.
“From what I recall of my readings, the lair consists of a cavern system through the southern section of the Shadow Mountains,” Gandalf was continuing, guesting to the dark stone mountains looming over the fortress. And them. “No other entrance has been recorded, but there have been rumours of winged beasts harassing Harondor and hunting within the desert plains of the south.”
Which meant the cave system would have other entrances and exits, which meant the beasts could potentially escape and ravage Gondor and beyond with ease. How much he trusted Gandalf’s belief of them only accepting noble riders, Aragorn was yet to decided. He did trust the Wizard, but these creatures were untested and all but forgotten, until Sauron had harnessed them for his strongest servants.
“Shall we begin our search?”
With a longsuffering sigh, Aragorn slid down from Brego’s back, passing the reins to the poor squire that had bravely volunteered to join their travels. Gandalf was quick to join him, crossing the bridge and passing beneath the maw-like gate of Minas Morgul.
It had taken weeks to breach the fortress and eradicate the orcs and worse within, but even now several months later, their stench and fell influence lingered.
Searching for a cavern entrance was harder than expected, the sheer number of rooms, corridors, nooks, crannies, and shadowed corners seemed to multiply by the dozens. But after hours of careful hunting, they found it.
The archway carved into living stone of the mountains was blackened, rough to the touch and porous. The sort of stone that had been present within Mordor, that spoke of fire mountains and burning lava long since cooled. No doubt it had wrought a myriad of tunnels and catacombs and caverns within the Shadow Mountains…
Which meant plenty of hiding spots for the angulócë he sought.
“Look here,” Gandalf murmured, a quiet spell brightening the crystal within his staff, and revealing carved words across the arched doorway. “I torech angulócë. Bad limbë mis ldë penta tya men, lasta harivë mis ldë penta tya tunto, yë quet milyar mis ldë penta tya elwen.”
“The Dragons Lair,” Aragorn repeated voice low, “tread lightly less you lose your way, listen closely less you lose your wits, and speak softly less you lose your heart.”
“All of which you are quite adept at, no?”
The amused smile he gave the wizard was returned in full, a reassuring sight despite the dark and shadowed fortress they’d passed through.
“But its here our paths must diverge,” Gandalf said, and Aragorn’s smile evaporated, “you are of noble blood, while I sadly, am not.”
“Thanks.”
A hand clapped onto his shoulder, a familiar weight and encouragement. “You are Elessar Telcontar High King of the Reunited Kingdoms, all you’re trying to do, is find an oversized flying lizard.”
Gandalf made it sound so simple, but despite any reluctance in his heart, Aragorn took a torch from the wall, and entered the Dragons Lair.
Flickering firelight did little to illuminate the ragged and harsh walls that Aragorn found himself passing. The steep staircase beneath his feet wound endlessly into the depths of the earth, dust and grit crunching beneath each footfall. It was narrow, it was cramped, it was unpleasant, but somehow it still felt far better than Moria had.
Perhaps it was the air, it seemed… fresh.
Or at least compared to the orc stench he’d left behind. Oh there was the smell of rot and decay, the smell of fire and brimstone, but it was faint, easy to ignore as he watched his feet.
So focused on navigating the steps, it took Aragorn a moment to notice the change.
The walls of the staircase had ceased to exist, one moment he was navigating a narrow stairwell leading into the bowels of the mountains, the next… he was balancing a precarious route within a great cavern.
Was this of dwarven make? It felt like it, what with their precarious walkways, steep stairs, and distinct lack of rails between you and a fathomless fall. The flickering light of his torch struggled to reach much further than his immediate space but pausing on a ‘landing’ Aragorn was able to tilt his head back and eye the cave.
There were shafts cut into the stone high above, so distant and small that they could have been stars in the velvet of night. Even as he watched, trying to find his bearings, one of the lights went out.
And then returned.
There was a distant sound, the slither of something dragging over rock and stone. Dust and grit pattered down from above, stinging his eyes and threatening a cough. Breath held, Aragorn remained still, letting his eyes adjust to the near darkness, listening intently.
A low sound, on the edge of his hearing, a flicker of movement, a scent of musty air.
There was movement, and from more than one location.
His fingers twitched with the urge to take Andúril from its sheath, but he resisted. So far the creatures hadn’t approached, hadn’t snarled or hissed, hadn’t made any indication of attack, and with how narrow the staircase was, it would be difficult for them to approach without his knowing.
Even as that thought crossed his mind, there was the scrape of claws on stone, and an almighty burst of air, threatening to knock him from the walkway. Sinking into a crouch, he pressed his free hand to the stone in a bid to stabilise against the buffering of—
Wingbeats.
Head snapping up, Aragorn watched as the edge of a wing, the long serpentine line of a tail, passed on the edge of his torchlight.
A crunch of stone, and the beast settled upon a new wall.
It could have eaten him, could have lashed out and struck him from his precarious perch, but instead it had simply… passed him by. Like a curious onlooker eyeing a stranger to their home. The creature was curious, not aggressive.
Exhaling silently, Aragorn went to rise, but paused, eyes on the stone beneath his feet. Before him was smooth unblemished steps, but beneath his fingers and feet was grit and dust, clear marks where he’d stepped and disturbed months or maybe years of residue.
Leaning forwards, his fingers brushed the next step, leaving a great streak through the built-up black dust. Not unblemished then, just untouched. Rising to his feet, he looked back, light of the flames showing a clear path where he had walked.
‘Tread lightly less you lose your way.’
No doubt these caves were a warren, but if he minded his step, he’d be able to retrace his route when it was time to leave.
With that in mind, he resumed the descent.
Eventually the stairs ran out, and Aragorn found himself stood at the bottom of the cavern. It was unsurprising to find bones there, animal and orc mainly, the flesh scraped clean from them, rough lines across the bones indicating teeth. But there weren’t enough to blanket the floor, which at least meant the going was easier.
Torch raised, he moved forwards, aiming to find the cavern wall and work his way about the massive space. So far, the angulócë in this space had been watchful, but hadn’t approached. Or did he need to approach them? Was there a word or phrase he could command them with? Why for all the Valar had he not researched this more before descending into the Dragons Lair?
But what else was there to do other than press onwards?
The soft crunch of grit underfoot, the quiet sounds of his breath, the gentle scrape of scales across stone, the subtle scratch of claws on rock, the whisper of wings passing overhead. It was… unnerving to say the least, knowing the creatures were in the cavern, knowing they were watching his progress, but keeping just beyond the light of his torch. On more than one occasion there was the flicker of light, of eyes reflecting at him.
The massive chamber was riddled with pockets carved into the walls, openings that hinted at further tunnels, corners and shadows that forced him to search and hunt and seek.
Until finally, he found an occupied recess. Judging by the deep calm breaths, the angulócë was sleeping.
It was, however the first time Aragorn had seen more than a shadowed flicker.
A curled form. Black scales, muted and dull in the light of his torch. Leathery wings folded and tucked against its flanks. A long, serpentine tail, encircling its form, draped across its nose and concealing its face. It was big, bigger than a horse, larger than a hay cart, but not so impossibly big that it would dwarf a house.
But certainly big enough to eat him…
Treading lightly, Aragorn approached, torch held low, hand hovering over the hilt of Andúril. There was no reaction, the deep breaths continued, steady and calm.
Should he speak? Reach out to it? Touch the creature?
So consumed by choosing his next step, Aragorn’s attention strayed from his physical steps, as a slender bone snapped beneath his soft soled boot.
In the light of his torch, emerald green eyes snapped open.
There was no chance to react, no chance to back up, no chance to try speaking or getting away or moving or anything as between one breath and the next, the angulócë lunged.
Taloned feet struck his shoulders, and Aragorn was slammed into the floor. Bones and stones jabbed his back and legs, the torch was flung free of his grasp –thankfully remaining lit– and thick black claws dug into the leather and wool of his old Rangers clothes. Ivory teeth bared, snarling in his face, inches long and inches away, the breath of old meat and rotting things.
His own hands were raised before him, as though the feeble flesh of men could withstand such an attack, small and pale before the maw of the angulócë, the ring on his finger gleaming dully in the flickering light.
There creature’s nostrils flared.
One moment, Aragorn was pinned to the floor and expecting death.
The next… nothing.
The angulócë lurched back, there was a scrabble of claws and scuff of scales across the rough floor, as the creature hastened away. Its long black tail flickered as it retreated into a tunnel.
It… it didn’t attack?
A scrabble of feet and snatching of torch, and Aragorn was quick to pursue.
The tracks were laughably easy to follow, great long streaks through the dust and grit, the mark of a tail being dragged, the scrapes of talons on the rough, porous rock, leading deeper into the mountains, further into the warren of caves, further away from the great cavern.
It knew where to go, but did he?
Steps slowed, eyes darting to the floor and hesitating as he discovered that his own prints were no longer visible. Following the tracks of the beast would be easy, retracing his own would be far harder.
At that realisation the cave about him seemed to shift, becoming darker and more constricting. The shifts of scales and wings echoing throughout, the rumbles and gusts of wind, the sounds of a dozen creatures and a dozen potential dangers. The noises echoed and multiplied until there could have been hundreds. There were low grumbles from the direction the angulócë had headed. If he kept his wits abou—
‘Listen closely less you lose your wits.’
Forcing out a harsh breath, Aragorn did his best to blot them out, eyes on the trail before him, ears on the sounds ahead of him. One foot in front of the other, eyes on the tunnel ahead, torch in hand and faith in heart, he followed.
Occasionally, he caught glimpses of dark scales, of a tail whipping out of sight, heard the huff of breath, or the shift of leathery wings. Was the angulócë tiring? Did it seek chance to escape? Was it drawn to the open skies? Would it lead him to another exit from the caverns?
Aragorn followed.
The glimpses became more frequent, the low rumbles and grows became more common, the rocky floor of the tunnel took on an upwards shift. At the first glimpse of sunlight, Aragorn realised his prediction had come true. The creature was seeking to escape.
Even now, silhouetted against the light of day, he could see the lithe serpentine creature bounding forwards. It was going to escape.
Throwing caution to the winds, Aragorn ran.
But he was too late.
Bursting into the open air of a mountain side, the sun pierced his eyes, and a hasty hand thrown up to shield them revealed the angulócë leaping from the cliffside.
Massive wings spread out, catching an updraft and hurtling skywards.
For a moment the burn of the rising sun became unimportant, too entranced by the sight of the dragon soaring above him. The leather of its wings was backlit, revealing the veins within colouring the black to a deep burgundy. Dark scales glinted and shimmered in the sun, turning to a myriad of colours as they reflected the light, blues, greens, and purples all highlighting its form.
And then it soared out across the… across the desert?
Just how far south had he followed the creature? Just how many miles was he from Minas Morgul? Had he spent hours or days following it? It didn’t matter, the creature had escaped, and now he’d have to return back to Minas Tirith and construct a new plan to hasten his travels across the Reunited Kingdoms.
Dropping heavily onto a rock with a frustrated exhale, Aragorn watched as the angulócë started circling, like a bird of prey it glided in tightening rings, its narrow head locked on something far below.
So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when its wings snapped shut, and it plummeted.
There was a burst of sand and dust, a snarl, and it rapidly took flight once more. Claws empty and tail lashing in frustration.
A glance to the lands before Aragorn revealed a heard of antelope bounding away, unscathed but startled. Was it trying to hunt? Did it hunger? How many attempts would it make before it gave up and returned to the tunnel he was sat before?
Or… was this something he could us?
It was a better plan than ‘try to get his hands on the beast’ so Aragorn listened to his instincts, and began the decent down the mountain side.
It was easy going, and before long he reached the sandy ground. From there, it was a case of finding the supplies he needed, and a suitable location to lay the snare. As he worked, a shadow passed overhead infrequently, the angulócë was quartering, hunting the lands even as Aragorn hunted his own quarry. Was it watching him? Did it understand?
Maybe.
With a twang of rope and startled bleat, the antelope was snared. A quick cut, and Aragorn was able to haul its body back up the mountain, dropping the fresh kill to a flatter area not far from the tunnel.
And then he backed up, and waited.
The angulócë had been watching. Within minutes it was circling overhead, eventually landing further up, eyes on the prize and long forked tongue flicking out to taste the air. It was still cautious to approach, eyes darting towards Aragorn frequently, perched on a rock out in the open.
But it approached.
Black scales shimmered with a myriad of colours in the sun, sharp emerald green eyes watching him cautiously, a set of horns framed its head like a crown, gleaming gold in the light of dawn.
It was beautiful, for an ‘oversized flying lizard’.
With a crunch of bones, it snapped up the antelope and leapt back up the mountain. To Aragorn’s surprise, it didn’t go far, settling upon an outcropping, and starting to eat. The antelope didn’t last long, little more than three mouthfuls for the large serpent.
Very well.
Aragorn, descended the mountain once again.
It was with the third antelope, that the angulócë settled down to eat alongside the tunnel, rather than retreating from his presence. Its lithe body sprawled out across the rocks, still tense and ready to run, but less afraid of Aragorn’s presence.
But how was he to win it over now?
‘Tread lightly less you lose your way, listen closely less you lose your wits, and speak softly less you lose your heart.’
Speak softly?
It was worth a shot, no matter how little he expected the creature to understand.
“Îdh,” Aragorn murmured softly.
The dragon tensed.
“Îdh, îdh mellon,” he repeated. ‘Peace, peace friend.’
Ebony scaled lips pulled back, exposing ivory teeth stained with blood and gore.
Not ideal.
“Sérë,” he tried Quenya instead, still keeping his voice quiet and soft, “sérë nildë.”
There was a beat, a pause, a consideration.
Its scaled lips relaxed, long forked tongue flicking out to lap the blood from its muzzle, green eyes fixed on him in consideration. For several long minutes the pair faced on another, one an ancient serpent, the other a newly crowned king.
And then it resumed eating.
Aragorn let loose a breath he’d not realised he was holding.
“Sérë nildë,” he repeated, not entirely sure if he was soothing the creature or himself, “ni tele ldë ui harnalë.”
‘Peace friend, I mean you no harm.’
There was a huffed growl, still preoccupied with stripping the flesh from the antelope’s bones with rasps of its barbed tongue.
“Nanyë Tar-Aragorn anon Arathorn,” he formally introduced himself.
Once again it paused, head lifting slightly to eye him curiously.
Did it truly understand Quenya? Or was it just the quiet speaking which had calmed the creature? It had certainly seemed agitated by the Sindarin he’d tried, but then those had been the first words he’d spoken aloud…
“Carfa Sindarin?”
Silence, emerald eyes watching him.
“Pakta Quenya?”
Its head cocked.
Quenya it was then.
As the angulócë resumed its meal, Aragorn continued speaking in Quenya. It made little sense, a stream of conscious thought, explanations as to his linage, descriptions of the city, even softly singing the Lay of Luthíen.
The antelope was eaten, and the angulócë remained, its elegant head resting on its front feet, long talons gently scraping across the basalt stones, emerald eyes locked on him.
If it had ears, Aragorn imagined they’d have been turned towards him.
But eventually the sun began to set, and his voice began to grow hoarse, and the serpent grew restless. Rising to its feet, it stretched in a catlike manner, forelimbs extended, neck coiled and maw spreading wide as it yawned loudly. A stretch of its wings buffeted Aragorn with their flaps, while its tail lashed and flicked behind it.
At which point its head swung towards him, and it took every ounce of Aragorn’s discipline and training not to flinch away. Ebony scales, golden horns, emerald eyes, all filled his vision as the angulócë sniffed at him. Its head alone was larger than his body, crown of gold horns framing its head as the nostrils opened and closed with gusts of hot air.
And then its snout nudged his hand.
Once, twice, on the third nudge, Aragorn lifted his hand. Only to blink in surprise as the angulócë pressed against it, the silver ring of Barahir gleaming in the setting sun, standing out against its dark scales.
“Suilië,” he greeted quietly.
A low rumble responded to his words, sounding oddly akin to the purrs of an oversized cat.
Moving carefully he ran his hand across its neck, feeling how the scales shifted and flexed, how the muscles bunched and moved. There was a heat radiating from it, a constant warmth like he was sat alongside a hearth and not an angulócë, a dragon of legend.
When his hand brushed across its shoulders and base of its neck, the creature moved. Dropping to the ground, the wing closest to him lowering.
Unless Aragorn was a fool, that was an invitation.
It didn’t react when he rose to his feet, nor did it shy away when he rested his palms upon its back. Some distant part of Aragorn’s brain was yelling at him, telling him he was a fool, that what he was about to do was unnecessarily reckless. And for once in his long life, he ignored the voice of reason.
Swinging one leg across the angulócë’s back, Aragorn settled between its wings, like riding an oversized scaly horse.
There was a slight huff, but no complaints otherwise.
Before him, the neck stretched, and then shook, scales rattling, spines and webbing catching the warm glow of the setting sun. Carefully reaching out, he grasped the spines before him, earning little more than a glance of emerald eyes.
“Tulo.”
It was a simple order, and one that was followed swiftly, as the angulócë rose to its feet. The gesture was surprisingly smooth, motions more like a cat than some foul lizard, but now it was standing, wings shifting and resettling against its flanks, pressing to Aragorn’s legs.
An impulsive urge took over him.
“Tsette.”
There was no hesitation, in fact, it seemed the serpent was eager.
Leathery wings snapped open, the muscles beneath his seat tensed, and Aragorn sorely regretted his life choices, as the dragon leapt.
A startled yell was snatched from his lungs as the wind whipped by, the mountain side vanished from beneath the pair, as they plummeted.
Despite having seen the angulócë soaring, despite having seen the ease with which it flew, despite knowing its wings were strong enough to carry its lithe scaled form, panic still lanced through Aragorn’s chest as they streaked towards the ground far below. And then its wings flared, the force of their fall all but crushing him into the creature’s shoulders and neck.
With a hard beat of wings, their downward fall became an upwards flight.
His grip with his knees must have been noticeable, the fierceness of his clinging to its neck spines must have hurt, but it barely seemed to register his weight or presence. Wingbeat after wingbeat, they climbed higher in the sky, mountain side and tunnel entrance rapidly retreating, the Shadow Mountains, the desert, the distant rivers and sea, dwindled rapidly.
It was beautiful, it was breath taking, the sunset turned the clouds overhead into burnished bronze and the sea was set aflame in reds and gold—
Wait, the sea? They were flying in the wrong direction.
“Quer tormen!”
That earnt a glance, but no reaction. Admittedly Aragorn shouldn’t have been surprised, as while the creature seemed to understand some speech, asking it to turn north, was possibly a little too advanced.
A glance about revealed the White Mountains on the northern horizon. Checking his grip, Aragorn adjusted his weight, leaning to the right.
Instantly the angulócë started to turn, angling right, following his lead as he used his bodyweight to direct the serpent northwards. It was only once the eastern most tip of the White Mountains was dead ahead, that Aragorn shifted back to centre.
There was no complaint, no protest, no disagreement or agitation, it simply accepted this new direction.
Steady wingbeats, sedate gliding, they travelled north with ease, covering miles and leagues of distance in seconds and minutes. Already Aragorn could make out the distant glimmer of Minas Tirith, could make out the dark wall of the Rammas Echor.
Minas Tirith, sprawled across the mountains, its circular walls gleaming in the light of the setting sun, the towers stretching into the heavens, pennants and flags fluttering in the breeze. A city of silver and pearl and starlight made real.
Even from his distance, Aragorn could make out buildings he knew. The Twisted Latch in the lowest levels, the Rangers Headquarters, the Messengers Centre, the barracks, the stables, the Houses of Healing. The courtyard in the Citadel, the white tree standing proud. And if he really squinted, the forms of Fountain Guards, still doing their duties.
How long had it taken to cover the distance from sea to city? Fifteen? Twenty minutes? Certainly no more than half an hour, if he was to judge by the sun.
“Andúya!”
To either side of his seat, the angulócë’s wings shifted, flexing to a new angle, and their descent began. Minas Tirith rapidly approached, the concentric circles of the city loomed large, growing bigger and bigger second by second. The out cropping, it was the largest open space, but the guards there were sure to be alarmed, unless Gandalf had warned them?
That was unlikely.
Which meant this might not go well.
“Nór ornë!”
Hopefully the dragon knew what trees were, although judging by the angle of its flight, the answer to that concern was a resounding yes. Heavy wingbeats almost drowned out the startled cries of alarm from guards and lords alike, as the angulócë descended. Still in midair, it seemed to rear upright as its hind legs swung forwards, and with a bone rattling thud, it landed.
Aragorn all but threw himself from its back in his haste to put himself between the citadel guard’s spears and the ancient serpent.
“Sérë!” he barked, “peace! It means no harm!”
“You-your majesty?” came a strangled exclamation.
“Find Gandalf, now,” he instructed hastily.
The guard was apparently glad of the excuse to turn about and run. The others, however, looked less convinced.
Turning back to the angulócë Aragorn did his best to sooth it, despite the spears and armour at his back.
“Sérë, rainë,” he soothed, “toi nildë.”
There was a clack of ivory teeth, but the bristling scales along its back began to smooth, the half-flared wings began to settle, and the lashing tail began to still. It wasn’t resting, it wasn’t at peace, but it had calmed, and that was enough.
“Arago-ah! I see your hunt was successful,” Gandalf’s familiar voice greeted.
Turning about to greet the wizard, alarm flickered through Aragorn’s chest as he found not only his trusted friend approaching, but also his wife.
Arwen’s fair features were alight with curiosity, the skirts of her sage green gown clutched in one hand as she hastened towards him. Or more accurately, towards the angulócë as her clear grey eyes were very much not on her husband.
“Oh he’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed, all but brushing past a bewildered Aragorn. “Suilië angulócë, nalyë alatulya hí.”
Already she was reaching up to cradle the creatures face in her elegant hands, and unless Aragorn was very much mistaken, there was a flicker of alarm in its emerald eyes. But the dragon held still under this affectionate assault, even if its nostrils flared and its body tensed.
“What is their name?” she asked, looking to Aragorn, even as her hands smoothed across its ebony scales adoringly.
For several heartbeats, Aragorn was frozen, attention shifting between his wife, and the potentially dangerous serpent she was all but petting like an oversized scaly horse, but it was quickly relaxing into her ministrations.
It was dangerous, it was powerful, but it was also beautiful. Black scales that gleamed like jet, golden horns that crowned its head like petals, and gleaming emerald eyes.
Aragorn lifted his hand to touch its neck, the hand with the ring settled about his finger. The Ring of Barahir, the two serpents entwined, one consuming, one with a crown of petals, both with emerald eyes, a mirror to the angulócë before him now.
Yes… that name would suit the dragon well.
“Barahir.”