A Different Kind of Dragon

( IT IS HERE GerithorDunedain! I hope you and your judges enjoy!)

            In the face of fear a King stands at the forefront of his army and leads them with courage. I, a boy of ten, am telling myself this as I hide in an empty barrel that still smells strongly of rock salt and silverfish.

"Dragons... all the dragons are dead now, so it's silly to fear them. Great-Papa'r Bard killed the last dragon. Smaug... I won't have to fight any dragons whatever Uncle Dain says." I whisper. Dim rays of light shine through the slates. The smells of dried meat and spices mingle with the salty scent embedded in the wood. "Father didn't have to fight a dragon and he's a good king."

As if in response, Cousin Thorin's voice echoes in my head, "No, but he wouldn't hide at the thought."

Biting my lower lip I admit to myself Cousin Thorin is right, he often is. Brand wouldn't hide. He isn't afraid of anything: dragons, dangers, or death. He is a king, a warrior of Dale. "And so are you!" I whisper fiercely. "So you will get out of this barrel before someone finds you. Cousin Thorin will never let you hear the end of it." I nod to myself; it was a good point. I often give myself good points; it was simply a matter of following them.

Taking a deep breath, crunching a piece of rock salt between my teeth, I hook my fingers around the rim of the lid and lift it. I emerge and see shadows dance over the hanging meat, hide, and kegs of rum. The lid clatters into the stone floor as I see the flickering light beside me. Looking I see Father, sitting on a horizontal keg tightening his bowstring. He looks up at me.

"Why are you in the Barrel my boy...?"

"Uncle Dain was talk--"

"I know about Uncle Dain. Why are you in the barrel?"

I lick my lips and look down at my hands. "I wanted to be alone. To think. To find courage." My father lifts an eyebrow. He leans towards me, peers into the barrel and then to my eyes.

"Did you find some?"

I look down again and shake my head.

"Aye, that's because courage comes from within you, not in barrels or beds, Bard."

"How?"

He pauses. "Death carries an arrow for each of us, from that arrow there is no escape. However," Brand places a hand on my shoulder and waits until he has my full attention. "Until that time, one can fight dragons and battle armies fearlessly knowing you will meet Death as a warrior, and later as a king, with nothing to fear." He retracts his hand and looks down. I hear him clear his throat and see him hand out a bow I realize is my own. "Bard, you can't face Death with loose bowstrings."

➶➵➴

Fireworks and party favors are items of specialty from us Dale folk. There is no better time for showing off such spectacular lights than on the anniversary of Smaug's defeat. A time when grown warriors act like excitable children.

"You don't think there're still dragons," my father scoffs, leaning over the table towards Uncle Dain. A volley of firework crackle into the midnight blue sky, setting it aflame as townfolk cheer.

I sit at the far end of the table, picking leftover berry tart crumbs from the feast that I didn't get a chance finish. Crumbs that jump as the great Dwarf King smacks down his chalice.

"In the north!" He replied, ale-making his words smooth but not slurred. He pulls out a map, from somewhere unseen. "There must be dragons in the north."

Brand taps his sword's hilt. "Would we not have heard by now?"

"Nay, I believe they're in the mountains. Dragons are underground creatures, they like the warmth that's found at the mountain's heart, like us Dwarves."