The Lonely King
A short piece I wrote for one of my classes, relevant here for its protagonist. I decided to explore a bit of musing from the perspective of Smaug, the dragon from the Hobbit.
The Lonely King
They call me terrible. They call me wicked. They call me tyrannical, mighty, and the greatest of calamities.
They are right.
Yet I am more than these things, far more than the insignificant lesser creatures could ever imagine. Who but I could lay claim to an entire mountain as his home? I, who have soared the heights and fallen upon prey like a thunderbolt; who has razed cities and scattered armies; the one who plucked the crown from great Thror's head? Teeth like knives, scales tough as shields, fire hot enough to melt armour... And behind it all an intellect as fearsome as my physical aspects, a wit to rival the great scholars of the age! Not to mention my fabulous hoard, the very bed upon which I slumber. Riches such as these belong only to one as superior as I and are the envy of all Middle Earth. Few see beyond my intimidating physical attributes--truly, who can blame them? I am magnificent. But...
None hear the epic poems I have composed, or tarry to riddle with me. No one else soars the heights at my side or warms the halls of my abode. I shall never see a challenger at chess or tell the tales of my exploits to an eager ear. Alas, I, the great Smaug, am the last of my kind. Would that I had a scaled companion to entwine tails with--to join with me and reign supreme over all! So long I have dozed with no more than the cold comfort of my hoard. I almost wish some thief should come and provide me a little excitement. Perhaps I struck too much fear into the hearts of mortal kind in my impetuous youth. Great was the prize I took for certain, yet with none to share in my glory, no rival to defend against... Enemies look closer to friends if they are the only ones acknowledging your existence.
No, I'm prattling like a foolish old drake. Dwarves may live long, but they are grubby squabblers who see little past their earthen halls. And the elves? Pah, undeserving of their high opinions of themselves. Their immortality turns them as boring as a limp fish. As for men... those scheming, nasty little manlings expire near as quick as smoke from my nostrils. A wizard might do--at least make for interesting conversation--but they scurry about near as much as men, seeking secrets and tending their causes.
Should I dare hope for another wyrm? Some long-lost egg hidden beneath a distant mountain? I could take flight, search the ancient roosts and caverns, pick through the bones of ancestors in the hope that something, somewhere, might have survived. But no, the moment I take leave of my halls, greedy thieves will swarm in like so many ants. Besides, what good is a mewling hatchling to me? If any of my kind still breathe, they reside in long-distant lands. I know not where to begin such a journey and could never leave behind my precious treasure. A drake's worth resides in more than his scales. My glittering trove has no equal, each shining coin and priceless artifact serves as testament to my dominance and greatness. I must continue to abide here, the great and terrible king beneath the mountain, until this age ends, or my bones turn to dust. Perhaps when the time comes, I shall rouse and seek out challenge in the kingdoms below. Better to die in glory and flame and live on in tales than to quietly rot.
Wait. What is this smell? I know it, though many years have passed since I smelled it last. Dirt and sweat, coupled with the rank stench of fear. My nostrils twitch, sampling the aroma. A mortal, a lesser being... but not man, dwarf, or elf. Am I dreaming? Has my wishful mind conjured a creature of fancy? The shackles of my long slumber begin to loosen. I must see. I must know who it is. Have they come to visit me?
Perhaps we might be friends.