At dawn steam rose from the vents and rose with the first figures to crawl out of their shelters to rekindle flames and ready to hunt. Snow was cleared and water was collected. Tools and weapons were checked for damage. I watched from my resting place as paths were cleared and steam rose with the morning. The basin did not feel empty anymore.
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Life continued as the basin started to change from my sparse home to a village of people to call my own.
The human leader approached me most mornings with words I half understood as long as there was gestures. He started a routine of pointing at something and then naming it. When he handed something off, he repeated the word to me.
"Veru." Water.
"Kaltu." Cold.
"Gur." Wolf.
I tried my best to imitate him, but dragon throats were not really made for language. The children would laugh at me whenever I stumbled over a pronunciation. Over time, my mistakes decreased and my sentences got longer.
One morning, after I had returned from a fruitful hunt, he approached me with a bone bowl in hand, steam curling off a meaty broth that tickled my nose. He sat down carefully and placed the bowl next to him before looking at me earnestly.
He touched two fingers to his chest. "Ráni."
He repeated it again slower while tapping his chest repeatedly. "Ráni."
He continued the process a few more times as I tried to work the word on my tongue.
Eventually, I was able to produce the sound close enough for him to smile in joy.
"Ráni." His name.
Then he pointed at me, his eyebrows lifted in expectation. I had never thought about my name too deeply, though I had one in my human life. In all my time on Middle-Earth, a name was never needed. My mother had spoken to me more with intent and sounds that I subconsciously interpreted. A name was never given.
After a while I settled on a new name. On that was powerful and a call back to my old world as well.
"Tiberius."
The sound was heavy in the air as power seemed to settle over me like a cloak.
"Ti…be…ri…"
Ráni's attempt to pronounce it felt apart halfway through and a child nearby attempted it next to abject failure. Laughter rumbled in my chest as I could finally laugh at them instead.
Eventually, as more people tried to say it, they gave up and shortened it.
"Tivri."
The others repeated it and seemed to be satisfied. My first name given.
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Hunting became a coordinated effort that needed no words spoken as we complimented each other. I killed the right amount to feed myself and left enough for them to hall back on their sleds. I was trying to introduce the idea of herding to Ráni, but, being a semi-Nomadic people, he as finding it hard to grasp and even harder to accept. It was not their way.
I ranged further and further south and east as my domain expanded. Orcs challenged my new rule, their parties coming in bands of twenty to twenty-five. I do not know what gave them the courage to fight me especially as I get bigger and bigger.
The first few years was simple work as I would intercept them in the southern valley and use the ridges to ambush them. Sometimes I ended it quickly with flame, sometimes I released my aggression in a storm of claws. Bodies were dragged to the edge of my terriorty and left to rot. A warning to whoever was sending them and, as time passed, fewer patrols were seen.
Sometimes I would see figures in the distance, rather slender and well equipped, who would watch me with undisguised trepidation. They never approached but also did not seek to harm me. They just watched.
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Years moved in cycles of snow and thaw.
Children who once hid behind their parents legs now carried spears to hunt and ladles to cook. The old woman with the bone charm passed away, going quietly in her sleep, a smile on her face. Ráni's beard turned lighter around the edges.
Time waited for no one; I was beginning to realize.
Language filled the quiet hours, and I conversed like a native.
"Gur Avos." Wolver are near.
"Véru nalt." Water is low.
"Oruk east." Orcs to the East.
The grammar and syntax was crude but meaning was often conveyed with way fewer words than in English.
One evening, as hides were being skinned and hanged, I heard two women speaking of a place called "Númenor."
I asked Ráni about it later. He waved his hands in exaggeration and mimed ships sailing. He thumped his chest to emphasize their strength and explained how Númenor was blessed by the divine. Men from across the sea. To the southwest.
When I asked how far, he gave me a blank look. "Far."
I was curious. I hoped that I would be able to visit such a beautiful place one day.
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During longer flights east, I began to notice something new as the land darkened and the snow thinned exposing stretches of stone. Angles too sharp and lines too straight to be natural. This was not a natural formation.
Ruins.
The first time I saw the outer edge was during a return flight from a hunting trip. Blocks the size of houses lay scattered across a wide plain and some still stood upright, in alignment, casting long shadows. No smoke rose from within or stirred the settled dust.
I did not descend, an unsettling feeling emanating from it kept me at bay. Instead, I circled to map it out before turning back to the basin.
After that, my eastern flight grew more frequent as, though dangerous, something was also pulling at me. Tugging at my instincts.
The basin no longer required constant protection as I had killed or scared off most Orcs. The younger hunters maintained watch rotations even with my presence and there had been no incursion for a winter.
I did not know what I would find or what could happen to me, so preparation was essential. I stockpiled more meat and hunted extra game. I strengthened my claws and practiced my flame breath.
The humans noticed my change in behavior and Ráni watched me with growing concern. Eventually, he approached me to ask what I was preparing for. What threat was coming.
I told him I found ruins to the east that emanated a power and captured my interest. He seemed troubled for a second before uttering a word.
"Utum."
I cocked my head in interest. He exhaled through his nose as though recalling a dark story and not sure whether to tell it. And a story was indeed told.
He spoke of an ancient fortress built by a dark power in the far-off days. Pits ran beneath it from which Monsters emerged. The Great Spirit of the North broke it and chained what lived inside forever. The cold never left.
As Ráni finished, I was struck by a thought.
Was the "dark power" Morgoth?
My caution was raised, but I would not be deterred.
Before dawn the next day, I gathered what I could carry and climbed to the edge of the basin. I scanned the surroundings, seeing snow undisturbed and smelling no Orcs on the wind. The air was clear.
I coiled tightly before launching into the sky, angling east. The basin remained behind me, steady and intact, while Utum waited before me, buried and ruined.
I know not what awaits me, but I flew toward it alone.