Archive of Our Own

The Valar gathered, as they were wont to do, on the third Thursday of every month. Or perhaps it was that the third Thursday of every month occurred whenever the Valar gathered. (Calendars were very stressful business for those who cared about such things in Aman.)

Today’s meeting was hotly anticipated. The agenda had been set by Tulkas: a summary of draconids, their characteristics, and a mysterious proposal regarding the beasts of Morgoth. According to the loremasters, this was the first time since the Eldar had come to Aman that the Vala of Strength had bothered with such minutiae.

After his formal presentation, a concise and organized affair, disturbed only by his use of a thunderclap preceding the introduction of each point, the Valar sat in silence and contemplated his proposal. 

Finally Manwë stirred; the shining cumulonimbus form of his being drifting outward. “Evil is fissiparous. But itself barren.”^[1]

A garland twirled in agreement. “Yes, of course.” Nessa hesitated. “But I’m not sure I know what fissiparous means.”

“It means, dear sister,” Oromë said, “that Evil is insubstantial; a hollow thing. Like the mist—”

“Fissiparous—“ Yavanna’s voice boomed through the Máhanaxar — “means inclined to multiply through division.”

“Ah.” The furling multi-colored garlands that were Nessa’s current corporeal form knit together in a conclusive square. One scarlet ribbon quickly began to unwind, though. “I don’t know what that has to do with dragons. I thought they laid eggs.”

“They do,” said Vána. “They are truly wondrous to behold — they remind me of opals, but with the glow of hardest gems springing from within.” She glanced at Aulë and hastily added, “But marred opals of course. Very fissiparous.”

“You are not wrong,” Yavanna said. Of the fourteen Valar, she was the only who stood, her form that of a towering sequoia, her voice a storm within its branches. “The drakes of Melkor were beautiful — a mingling of the beauty of precious stones and living creatures. But unlike the alattallóce ^[2]or the lizard or the bird, they were by nature greedy and deceitful, never satisfied with enough and wont to destroy for no reason other than their own amusement.”

“There is a place for destruction in Eä,” Tulkas said.

It took the rest of the Valar a moment to recover from the shock of Tulkas even approaching philosophy, but Nienna at last stirred, the silvery curtain of rain parting to show the perfect oval of her face.

“You are right, Tulkas. Some new creations only arise through the destruction of the old. But I could not condone releasing such danger into Aman. We promised the Firstborn that here was safety and security. We have failed them before; we must not fail them again.”

One of Oromë’s ears flicked up. “What if he were a very small dragon?”

“How small is very small?” Ulmo asked, stroking his foaming beard. “As small as the smallest of the Enchanted Isles?”

“That’s not very small,” Vána, a goddess of small things, pointed out. “Babies are small. If we allow the dragons to return they should be the same size as a baby.”

“What kind of baby?” Aulë asked. “A baby dragon?”

“Even smaller.” Varda finally spoke. “And I would not grant them back their breath of fire or ice.”

“Come now,” said Tulkas. “They must retain some of their impressive fighting spirit, that’s the whole reason I brought forth this topic. If you’ll recall point 5a—“

“What if they weren’t dragons?” Oromë cut in. “I quite agree with your arguments, Tulkas, but I also agree that we cannot reincarnate dragons as they were, not unless we could also ensure that no malice remained in them, and that is not possible as we have found to great misfortune.”

“What are you thinking?” Yavanna’s branches lifted and her leaves shivered with curiosity.

“I am thinking of something small, yet still a mighty hunter,” Oromë answered

“And still beautiful in their own way?” Vána asked hopefully.

“Yes, and still beautiful. Some might even say cute,” Oromë said. A few more flowers blossomed in Vána’s being.

Manwë pondered the proposal. At last he turned to Varda. “Will you bless this effort?”

“I will, dear lord.”

“So shall it be.” Manwë turned to Tulkas. “Ancalagon was your request. Are you sure that is the dragon you wish to reincarnate first?”

Tulkas rubbed his hands together, sending sparks flying everywhere. “Oh yes, this will be very fun. I haven’t been this excited to see what happens in ages.”

~

Below Ancalagon, ashen grey clouds churned, flickering with the light of storms. His mouth was filled with the salty-iron taste of blood and he flicked his tongue through his teeth to rid them of stuck hair, the only remainder of his most recently vanquished foe.

Although he was fresh from battle, Ancalagon felt no weariness. Throughout the war he had been training, taking what he learned with each battle to pinpoint every weakness of muscle, mind, or magic and practice counter-strategies until he was perfection in dragon-form. 

The sky grew lighter, but the source was not from the east towards which Ancalagon flew. Ancalagon tilted his wings to whip himself around, pivoting faster than dragons half his size could turn. He roared before he could even take measure of his adversary, the better to begin the battle from a position of strength. His foe might be powerful: on a few occasions, Arien and Tilion had swerved from their paths to join the fray themselves.

Light more silvery than Arien and more golden than Tilion blazed from his assailant, powerful, yet familiar. Before the war, the light of the Silmarilli had heralded the approach of his master. During the intervening years of battle, Ancalagon had once seen the same searing light born aloft in a strange bright vessel, but had sent the ship tumbling down into rough seas. 

There was no mistaking the enemy before him as anyone other than the captain of the glittering ship he had thought defeated: impossibly small, straw-colored hair whipping below the steel helm, mouth hard amid a short covering of fur on his lower face. 

The man lifted his sword and the light changed quality, going from illuminating to burning. Ancalagon roared again and plunged towards the ball of light that surrounded his foe. The light streaked by his right side, the ship deftly sidestepping the dragon; only a bit of railing was damaged as Ancalagon’s wing clipped it.

Wrath building, Ancalagon flapped his powerful wings to gain height and again pivoted. The ship and his tiny assailant had vanished, although the sky was still grey and not the inky black he had flown through before the enemy appeared. Ancalagon began to glide down, intent on hunting down the pest, when a jolt of pain struck his belly, and kept traveling inward. Then it was wrenched out, and that was worse. Ancalagon screamed as he felt hot blood spray from the wound. It burned, and he feared something vital had been struck. The silver ship shot out in front of him from where it had been hiding beneath his bulk. 

The last thing Ancalagon saw was the silver-gold light coming straight for his eyes, and beneath that light a small but determined warrior, sword held aloft. Then blackness and pain enveloped him and he was falling—

-—Ancalagon started up, struggling to his feet. Gone was the reek of smoke and the sizzle of lightning; instead, the smell of vegetation and cool, clear air filled his nostrils. Underneath the powerful environmental scents, there was something warm and musky and likely quite tasty. Ancalagon experimentally stretched; his body was strange. He was still quadrupedal, but quite low to the ground. He took a few steps — movement was light and easy. His hearing was sharp, but the world looked strangely proportioned and dull. He turned his head. He was covered in glossy dark fur, not scales, with a fluffy black tail to match.

He sat down abruptly at the sight. He had been battling, then falling, and then, then? He had been elsewhere, he was sure of it, but had no memory whatsoever of where that else had been.

His stomach grumbled. He would have time enough to investigate the mystery later; first, he smelled something full of warm blood and bones and he was starving. He moved towards the smell, slowing to a measured stalk as he neared. A little closer still; he marveled at the stealth this form was capable of, perhaps it was something to retain once he was back in his proper body. He finally saw a twitch of movement. The rabbit caught sight of him at the same moment. Predator and prey froze for a few heart beats. Then Ancalagon sprang. The rabbit leaped as well but too late — Ancalagon caught it in two bounds and snapped its neck with an instinctual shake. The flavor of blood already began to fill his mouth from the puncture wounds, rich and salty.

Ancalagon looked for a good place to eat his prize. A few paces away a sunbeam shone on a flat rock. Perfect. He had loved the lava-warmed rocks of his birthplace and while he didn’t think this furry body could withstand the temperatures the superior scaled form had, basking in the sun sounded sublime.

He settled down to tear at the corpse, peeling off the skin and fur to get at the tasty meat and organs and small crunchy bones. Amid his feasting, he heard the smallest sound behind him along with a whiff of powerful musk. He lifted his bloody muzzle and froze, ears twitching to catch sound of whatever was behind him. All was silent. Ancalagon turned to look, but he didn’t see anything. He was about to return to his meal when two large yellow eyes blinked into view in the tall grass. Facial features spotted, the outline of a huge cat became clear. Her spotted coat allowed her to blend into the vegetation, but muscular shoulders and two jutting teeth clearly marked her as a threat.

Ancalagon licked his chops. A worthy opponent. He lashed his tail and crouched. The large cat blinked a few times as if surprised at Ancalagon’s lack of fear. Fool. She did not know whom she faced: Ancalagon the Black, The Biting Storm, and mightiest of all dragons. Ancalagon charged.

The other cat leaped aside and swatted at Ancalagon. Ancalagon dodged the huge paw but noted the long knives of her claws. One swipe could end him. No matter — he had once terrorized through fire and strength, now he would bring death through his swiftness. He launched himself at the other cat and bit down on her neck, hanging on by his teeth. The other cat roared and shook. Ancalagon found himself flying through the air with a mouth full of mostly fur and only a little blood.

The jolt of impact drove the breath from him but he struggled to his feet regardless. The other cat was staring at him, fur on end and ears flattened back. Ancalagon began to circle his foe. The other cat let out a yowl and pounced again. Ancalagon dodged, but this time the following swipe connected. Pain flashed over his side where the claws raked him. The hurt fueled his rage, and Ancalagon spun and charged the cat again, this time aiming for the center of her body. He raked his own claws across the less-furred underbelly. The other cat roared as Ancalagon dashed underneath her.

This time the other cat didn’t wait for Ancalgon to attack. With a single leap it was upon Ancalagon and the great jaws closed around him. Ancalagon felt a sharp pain in his belly as he reached his claws up to scratch at his foe’s face. The surprise attack made the great cat drop Ancalagon. Her claws flashed across Ancalagon’s face and the vision in one eye went red and then black. The realization he should try and run, that this foe was beyond him, finally struck, but Ancalagon found his limbs would not obey him. Ah, well, this is a good death. This cat cannot say she tricked Ancalagon the Great, only that we fought fairly on the battlefield, he thought as the sound of a horn rang out.

The other cat froze. The air around them erupted in yells as elves burst from the tall grass. From his spot on the ground, Ancalagon couldn’t quite see what happened, but he heard a projectile fly through the air and heard the death-scream of the other cat.

A pair of feet appeared before him encased in soft leather shoes

“Brave creature, I have not seen such a battle this side of the sea.”

Every breath hurt, but Ancalagon struggled to turn his head to see his rescuer. He met sage-green eyes and a broad, white smile framed by a neatly trimmed beard. Ancalagon opened his mouth to promise rewards if the Man helped him further, but to his dismay the only thing that came out was a pathetic mew.

“Ah, but you are sorely injured. Here, let me mend you as best I can for now and take you to my home where a mighty healer resides.”

A ticklish feeling ran over Ancalagon’s body and his vision blurred.

“Rest, little hunter,” the Man said and sleep descended on Ancalagon.

~

Ancalagon did not know the Man, but he was about the only creature in Aman who did not, save for holy hermits, remote mystics, and general curmudgeons. The Man was Dior Eluchíl, only child of Lúthien Tinuviel and Beren Erchamion. 

Following the establishment of The Choice of the Peredhil, most scholars concluded mortality was the default for those descended from both the First and Secondborn of Ilúvatar. It therefore came as a great shock to everyone when many of the residents of Tol Eressëa, and quite a few mainland Teleri besides, received invitations for the reincarnation celebration of Dior Eluchíl and his wife, Nimloth of Doriath. The shock was twofold: not only had Dior been assumed to have left Mandos long ago as all Men do, but also no one had held a reincarnation celebration before. The knowledge that they could have been having at least four times the parties smarted a bit.

It required decoding both archaic dialect and Cirth, but soon the invitees had an address, although that was equally perplexing as it directed guests to travel to a wood no one had ever heard of. A rather enterprising descendent of Daeron named Celebrimbor, who had fled Middle-earth after being mixed up with the other Celebrimbor one time too many, finally realized that the gold foliage the invitations were written on contained a map hidden in the veins of the leaves. 

With great curiosity and mild trepidation, a party from Tol Eressëa traveled to the mainland following the invitation’s directions. There, West of Lórien and North of Valmar, was a great wood where no wood had stood before. They never were able to confirm their suspicions, but the blend of towering evergreens and silver-trunked beeches, the tinkling streams lined with willows, the sudden meadows of hemlocks and bluebells, the flights of butterflies during the day and the chirp of the nightingale at night, and the faint sheen of starlight even in brightest day made every survivor of Doriath believe that Melian had had a hand in creating the new forest. 

In the center of the woods, crowned with wildflowers and seated at a high table, surrounded by newly-reincarnated courtiers, were Dior and Nimloth. They stood to greet their guests and began a series of toasts both spoken and signed that continued until the whole assembly was drunk on wine and floral cordials. Later, after several seasons of dancing and feasting, many hunts, and the establishment of a new school of theater, someone finally was able to ask Dior how he came to be in those woods.

Dior had spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the now varied crowd of Sindar, Laiquendi, Avari, Teleri, and not a few Noldor and Vanyar, who had always believed themselves Woodelves at heart, and said, “I was king but a few short years, and those years were hard and bitter. Defense! Offense! Parlays and treaties were all I had time for. My birthright was the wide woods and a merry folk, but poison grew upon our northern border and we had become a grim people. My mother told me tales of Elu Thingol’s splendid court, his mighty rides, and feasts that lasted whole seasons, but without the protection of my grandmother that was only a memory. But now we are in Avon, the land of holy light, protected from evil — now we make merry as we once did when the land was full of starlight and the Enemy was naught but a rumor.”

Several more seasons of celebration passed before someone was able to ask Nimloth how she and Dior were here when the tales said Dior had passed beyond the circles of the world and Nimloth mourned him evermore in Mandos.

Nimloth had shoved her glass of wine into the hands of the question asker the better to emphasize how stupid the question had been.

“Mourn evermore in Mandos? And when would I have time for that exactly?” Nimloth flared the fingers of one hand and made a throwaway gesture with the other: a skeptical snort or dismissive ‘bah.’ “They didn’t know what to do with the Silmaril, or what to do with my children, or where to put all the unused tapestries. I was quite busy.” No clearer answer was ever given as to how and why Dior Eluchíl was finally reincarnated, and whether or not it had been the plan all along.

But Ancalagon knew none of that. He had only been alive for a few scant hours in Aman, and Dior and Nimloth had died while Ancalagon was still frolicking in the lava pits of his youth. In the haze of pain and the muzzy aftertaste of Dior’s command, he sensed very little. Warmth and leafy green sunlight greeted him a few times before a different Man, bearded face framed by dancing braids, darkened his vision, murmuring gentle assurances as he ushered Ancalagon back into a deep slumber.

When Ancalagon’s lovely dreams of fire and darkness dispersed, he only knew that he lay on something soft and it appeared to be day. The world looked even duller and flatter than before, and he realized he could only open one eye. The next thing he noticed was a woman embroidering on a wide padded stool nearby, a silver needle flashing through the cloth. This did not at all seem like the kind of environment Ancalagon would thrive in, so he experimentally stretched to feel the extent of the damage and see if he could escape. Stitches pulled and dull points of pain flared white-hot. Ancalagon yowled. The woman didn’t look up though, still intent on her sewing.

Ancalagon watched her for a long moment, thoroughly confused. Did the woman not care about his pain? Perhaps this far too idyllic scene disguised a prison. Perhaps he had been stitched up only to be ripped apart again with excruciating torture — that’s what he would do after all.

Escape became more urgent. Ancalagon made every effort to get his feet underneath him, twitching and heaving and wincing his way onto his belly. He tried to stay silent, but soft mews of pain came with every movement.

He hadn’t quite pulled all four paws underneath him when the woman looked up. He froze and she smiled — Ancalagon thought he spied a diabolotic edge to the expression. She gestured at him and ran out of the room.

Trembling and queasy from pain, Ancalagon was not able to take advantage of the situation before a man and a woman followed the first woman back into the room. Ancalagon watched three pairs of hands flash first at him and then at each other.

The smallest of the three approached him, a crown of white flowers on her dark hair. She held out a hand, a greeting and a request both. Ancalagon tried to intercept the hand with his own paw, claws extended, but the motion pulled on a wound. The woman threw back her head and laughed, deep and loud. She gestured again and the other two joined her.

Although no words were spoken aloud, Ancalagon suspected they were somehow talking about him with their rapid gestures. None of them were looking at him. To be talked about yet excluded from the conversation was more than he could bear. Ancalagon again gathered his feet underneath himself; maybe if he kept his body still and only tried to move through his limbs, he could mount an attack with minimal pain. 

He jumped at the small woman with teeth bared. She was facing the man, but without hesitation, she took a slight step backwards and snatched Ancalagon out of the air.

Trying to keep his body still had not worked. Ancalagon mewled pitifully, wounds stinging and throbbing. At least his leap seemed to have stopped the conversation via hand signal. 

The woman gestured impatiently with her chin at the man. The man grabbed a piece of gauze and peered down at Ancalagon. As the braids swung in front of Ancalagon, arresting his gaze with the twinkling silver thread that ran through them, he realized that this was the same man who had been putting him to sleep these past few days. Ancalagon hissed at him, but it sounded weak even to his ears.

The man raised an eyebrow. “You’re very opinionated for a cat,” he said aloud before deftly undoing a bandage.

Ancalagon distinctly felt he was being mocked. With some effort, he stopped both his mewling and his hissing and instead stared off into space to signal his superiority to these silly primates.

There, isn’t that better, Brave One?

Ancalagon started, sending another painful chain reaction through his body. The woman who held him in her arms spoke directly into his mind. As surprise faded, Ancalagon felt immense relief. Communication mind-to-mind was such an obvious solution for his difficulties, and one he was quite skilled at. When before his mouth had been able to form the shapes of the elven tongues, he had frequently also exerted pressure with his mind to reinforce and influence. His powerful intellect and sway was what set him apart from the lesser worms and was one of the many markers by which he towered above the other dragons. 

Unhand me at once! Ancalagon commanded. There was no response from the woman, and he could tell that his words found no purchase; the connection that marked previous mind-to-mind conversions was absent. Ancalagon wailed mournfully. 

The woman holding him began to hum. There, there, little one. Elrond is almost finished.

As if on cue, the man straightened and signed something to the woman. She smiled one last time at Ancalagon and put him back down on the bed. She walked over to the sewing basket, gesturing all the while, and pulled out two skeins of pearlescent white thread and one of green. The other woman followed her and held the ends together as the small woman began to knot them together in a complex pattern.

“You are very lucky my grandmother likes cats so,” said the man who must be Elrond.

Before Ancalagon could work out how to explain to the man that he was not a cat, the grandmother was approaching with a shiny band of knotted thread in her hands. She tied it around Ancalagon’s neck with satisfaction. 

You look very handsome, the grandmother said, her hands and fingers signaling as her mind spoke her intent to Ancalagon.

Ancalagon, who had already been aware he was handsome, sighed heavily and buried his face in the soft cushions of his bed. 

~

Ancalagon soon realized that his yelps of pain and plaintive meows were sometimes ignored not because these elves delighted in his suffering, but because the lady of the house could not hear, nor could many of the other denizens. The elaborate gestures were a language, and he soon found himself picking up words and phrases.

He picked up that his own name was two hands gesturing towards each other and a fist held low with fingers quickly extended. He realized after picking up more of the language that this meant Rogeg, or Little Demon, and was quite flattered.

The first few days he plotted his escape, hissing and swatting at those who came too close, and generally made himself horrible to be around. But slowly, after a tribute of fresh fish, then with delectable scratches behind the ear, then with even more tender morsels of venison, his thoughts of leaving became less urgent.

When the small woman with white flowers in her hair came into his room to see Ancalagon walking around, she clapped her hands and ran out, leaving the door open. It was the perfect chance to escape, and yet Ancalagon found himself sitting and waiting for her return, curious as to what she would return with.

She came with a domed cloth structure nearly half her height. She put it on the ground and gestured towards an opening. Ancalagon looked at her, unimpressed by this attempt to trick him, for he could think of no other reason someone would coax him into a confined space.

The woman huffed and stuck her head and shoulders in and then looked expectantly at Ancalagon. Ancalagon flattened his ears. She stood and walked several paces backwards and turned so that the cloth cave was in her peripheral vision. At this signal of good will, Ancalagon’s curiosity got the better of him, and he approached the cave. He sniffed it suspiciously, then stuck his head inside. It was fur lined and contained a few colorful baubles and a rather inaccurate facsimile of a small rodent. He looked back at the woman. She now faced him with an eager look on her face, but had not approached further. Ancalagon darted in and quickly turned, ready for an attack, but none came. The interior was as soft as it had looked and the dimness was very appealing. The treasures were paltry things, but for the first time in a long while, Ancalagon felt like he had his own space.

When he exited, the woman had left, but right where she had been standing was a fishcake.

He had a hard time pinning a name to the woman; everyone seemed to call her something different. In his mind, he called her fishcake, and only later did he realize her proper name was Nimloth, Queen of the Woodelves.

Fishcake continued to feed him the choicest of treats and bring out delightful treasures like colored scarves that were exciting to chase and sparkling bells that rolled. She would let him take them back to his cave and engage with him again when he came up to her with one of the treasures in his mouth. Some might watch this and think that they were playing, but Ancalagon knew that he was doing important rehabilitation work to return to fighting shape.

The Man Ancalagon had first met, Fishcake’s mate, known also as Dior the King, was not nearly as appealing. He was loud, and his presence frequently indicated an incoming racket of instruments and singing. On the other hand, this cacophony was usually accompanied by unguarded treats if Ancalagon was willing to risk strange elves groping him as he wove his way through the raucous festivities. 

Some nights though, Dior and Fishcake would sit alone on a platform at the highest point in the tree and simply watch the sea of leaves below as night-blooming flowers blossomed around them. Then Dior’s lap became the perfect location for Ancalagon to hone his mind with meditation. Dior would sit perfectly still, a warm broad surface of support, and Ancalagon would remember when he had flown higher than the tops of trees as the cool breeze ruffled his fur.

Elrond remained a frequent visitor even after Ancalagon was healed. Ancalagon gathered that he and his mate, Celebrían, lived nearby. He was an acceptable replacement for Fishcake if Ancalagon required grooming or a heated seat — his lap was even larger than Dior’s and he could be relied upon to sit quietly in more locations. 

Both Fishcake and Elrond spoke of Celebrían often, but she did not seem to visit like Elrond did. One day though, Fishcake handed Ancalagon a small canister of oil for him to carry in his mouth, not the tasty kind, and asked, “Give this to my cousin, Celebrían, would you? She’s a bit off the north branch, second level from the top.”

Ancalagon did not like the implication that he was serving Fishcake in any way — she was acceptable, but she was still an elf — but decided he would not protest. He would see what this cousin was up to, and if it was uninteresting he would keep the oil for himself; it seemed a useful thing to have on hand.

He saw a pair of legs wrapped around the branch first — then a hand grabbed a wrench balanced on the branch above. Ancalagon watched with great curiosity as one leg tensed, an elbow tightened around the branch, and a woman rotated into view. She had a tool belt strapped over her flowing tunic, and her round face had a grey streak of something smeared over it. One of her eyes was marred by a fierce scar — Ancalagon’s own injured eye twitched in sympathy. He set down the oil and meowed.

The woman, who must be Celebrían, looked up and held out her hand as soon as she saw the oil. Before it even occurred to him that he shouldn’t respond to orders, he had picked up the oil and handed it to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Ancalagon studied her as she bent to apply oil to a pipe that he now saw was cleverly disguised to blend with the trunk. Nimloth had called her her cousin but she looked rather different than Fishcake to Ancalagon’s eyes. The woman’s hair spilled from the cloth wound around her head in silvery corkscrews and her eyes turned down as Nimloth’s turned up, cheeks full instead of thin. 

Ancalagon watched her work for a while before a flurry of wings distracted him. He watched two crows dashing at each other, fluttering from branch to branch. That such lowly creatures had been given wings when he had but four paws was a great indecency. 

“Every time I’ve seen you since you’ve arrived, you’re looking at birds,” said the woman.

Ancalagon blinked at her. He was fairly certain this was the first time he had seen her, but she spoke as if she were well acquainted with his habits. She stood and before he knew what was happening, picked up Ancalagon. She bounced him in her arms a few times, pressing her hands around his rib cage and pulling on limbs to see their full length. 

She set him back on the branch before Ancalagon resorted to twisting and jerking his way out of her arms — a dangerous reaction given how high up they were.

“Elrond said you must think they’re fine sport; I think you watch for a different reason.” With that, Celebrían put away her tools and dropped down to a branch below, eschewing the actual house with its study platforms and flights of stairs. Ancalagon shook his head as he walked back towards the indoors; elves were strange.

~

A warm cave, fresh meat, willing slaves — what more could Ancalagon want? The house was full of excellent perches and Ancalagon was praised effusively for any and all rodents he brought to Fishcake, or Nimloth as he more often thought of her now — she had increased her repertoire of treats.

When he wasn’t napping or hunting, he liked to follow Nimloth around and reinforce her directives. Although the Queen showered him with gifts and adoration, to most other people she was impassive, rarely laughing at jokes, showing little emotion as the great tales were performed in song and sign, and giving practical but hard advice to her people. Ancalagon enjoyed walking beside her and mewing to get attention turned towards them, or flicking his tail back and forth and staring down the subordinate to back up her edicts.

Ancalagon began to recognize the rhythms of the house as well, and so noticed an increased bustle one day right before his first morning nap. Annoyed, he went to find Nimloth, batting at her skirt for an explanation.

“Oh, poor kitty,” she signed. “They must be cleaning one of your favorite spots.” Ancalagon meowed at her for more information.

Seeing his open mouth and cross expression, Nimloth explained, “My daughter and her husband are coming to visit: Elrond’s parents. They normally live by the coast and haven’t traveled to see us in a long while, so we are trying to make it a grand occasion.” Nimloth glanced around to make sure they were alone, before dropping down to sign subtly to Ancalagon. “They spend much time with the other side of the family, and I really don’t know why. Tall, ungraceful people who are always getting in fights. I plan on making them realize just how much they’re missing, living away from the woods.” 

Ancalagon didn’t like the idea of visitors — it would make his servants less attentive — and Nimloth must have read the annoyed thumping of his tail. 

“Give them a chance! You’ll like Elwing and Eärendil — everyone does.”

Ancalagon pricked his ear at ‘Eärendil.’ It sounded familiar; maybe it was the name of someone’s boat. Ancalagon turned up his nose and went to find another nap spot. He would give the newcomers a chance, but only for Nimloth’s sake.

~

Elwing and Eärendil arrived with little fanfare. Ancalagon didn’t even realize they’d arrived until he heard unfamiliar voices coming from a sitting room, talking with Elrond and Celebrían.

Ancalagon wandered in, knowing it was his duty to investigate. The woman, Elwing, presumably, was small like her mother with the same glossy black hair. 

The man he knew instantly. 

Now he was dressed in muted greens as he laughed with Celebrían about something or other, but last Ancalagon had seen him, he’d been dressed for war, had a gem of blinding brilliance on his brow, and was flying towards him in a very shiny ship.

Ancalagon’s back arched and every hair stood on end. Here he was growing fat in the house of his mortal enemy’s mother-in-law. He had been slain by trickery and deceit — he’d like to see Eärendil vanquish him with his own claws and fangs and without that shiny jewel — and now, perhaps due to the blessings of Melkor the Creator, he had the opportunity for vengeance.

Dropping into a crouch, he sized up his foe. Eärendil was smaller than the great-cat he had taken on early on in his new life, smaller even than Dior in build and height. His claws and teeth were very blunt and he did not wield a false-fang at his side. Ancalagon still had some residual pain from his wounds, but nothing that would bother him once in the heat of battle.

Dior, who had been speaking with Eärendil, saw Ancalagon and must have recognized what the crouch and wiggling hindquarters meant. “Rogeg, no!” Dior called, but it was too late. Eärendil threw up an arm just in time to avoid having a large fluffy black cat attached to his face; Ancalagon just latched onto his arm instead. The arm flailed about but Ancalagon held firm. Everyone was yelling and someone grabbed a hold of his body, but he did not let go.

Suddenly he felt a press against his mind. Nimloth’s overpowering disapproval bore down on him: Release him.

Ancalagon loosed his claws and opened his jaws. He found himself against Dior’s chest, limbs held firmly so he had no opportunity to escape. Dior was scolding him; apparently Ancalagon’s war-like demeanor was not appreciated when it was used against his son-in-law. Elrond had hurried over to Eärendil and was trying to get his father’s attention and his arm as Eärendil stared in enraged stupefaction at the cat. Ancalagon narrowed his eyes in smug satisfaction and flashed his teeth until Nimloth’s disapproving face filled his vision.

“He is our guest. Would you eat a friend you welcomed into your cave?” she signed.

Ancalagon thought that was a brilliant strategy for a relaxed meal but was suddenly ashamed to admit as much to Nimloth, so instead, he flattened his ears and hissed. Nimloth’s eyebrows rose and her hands lifted, but at that moment her daughter tapped her arm and began furiously signing to her. Apparently Elwing was not a cat enthusiast and had brought some birds with her. Nimloth asked why she had to travel with her pets, which Elwing took offense to and soon a furious mother-daughter squabble erupted in front of Ancalagon.

“I think you should be removed from this situation,” Dior said, and carried Ancalagon out of the room. He relaxed his binding hold once they were a few paces away but continued to carry Ancalagon, finally ending up in the kitchens. Dior released him. Cat and man stared at each other. Finally Dior sighed and shook his head. “I think you need a hunting trip. Nimloth said you were perfectly happy here, but I know a war-like spirit when I see it.” He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t try to fight our guests again,” Dior warned, and left.

Ancalagon stared after him, and then looked for a suitable spot to stew. He found he was able to leap up to a shelf so high he could touch the ceiling. He perched there, glaring at the elves cooking and baking below him.

He was weak, soft and weak, with small claws and teeth. He might even have trouble killing an elfling in this form. And he was alone; the only dragon in all Aman. No one could ever truly understand him, know the power of breathing gouts of flame, of soaring on wide wings, of cultivating a second skin of gems. Not only that, but he allowed himself to be captive in the house of his most terrible foe’s mother-in-law! Well, not captive precisely — he could easily leave the great-flet^[3] — but now he could not leave without it being an admission of defeat.

~

Ancalagon was crafty of course, an essential quality of dragon-kind, but he decided that a straight-forward attack was best. Let he and Eärendil battle as equals, unaided by the unnatural light, without the interference of others.

Ancalagon was ready for his foe and pounced the moment Eärendil turned the corner from the entrance to the bathing pool. Some might say that a surprise attack was less than fair, but Eärendil had snuck up on him in his previous life, so Ancalagon didn’t have any compunction against a bit of stealth.

Ancalagon wasn’t able to make contact with tooth or claw however; Eärendil dropped his towel with a shout and grabbed Ancalagon in mid-air.

“Manwë’s balls!” Eärendil wrestled him, trying to avoid Ancalagon’s sharpest parts as he held him away from his body. “You are the most damned creature I’ve ever met, and I was well acquainted with Morgoth’s fell beasts.”

Quick as thought, Eärendil thumped Ancalagon to the ground and swaddled him in his towel so that only Ancalagon’s raging head stuck out. Eärendil tucked the cat under his arm, and continued walking to his room, Ancalagon yowling all the way. A few shot intrigued glances their way at the nude Eärendil and the restrained Ancalagon, but no one stopped them.

“What—” Elwing greeted them in her and Eärendil’s room with almost speechless astonishment.

Eärendil tossed Ancalagon on the bed. “I swear that animal ambushed me with intent to kill.”

Elwing frowned at the struggling cat. “What do they call him? Rogeg? So my mother is fully aware of his personality.”

“This is why we don’t visit your family. The worst my mother’s rabbits will do is defecate on you.”

“This whole trip was your idea!”

“Elrond and Celebrían invited us!” Eärendil said. “And I wanted to see Elladan. And it was your idea to stay with your parents.”

“I didn’t want to put them out — Elrond invites people to stay like he still has an entire town available to house them.” Elwing sighed. “I’ll bring Rogeg to my mother and talk to her.”

“If you think it will help.” Eärendil sounded doubtful.

“Not really. I don’t think I’ve ever won an argument with her, but we have to try something.”

“Maybe Elrond—”

“Their three guest-rooms have three people each and Glorfindel is sleeping on the couch.” With that, Ancalagon found himself scooped up by Elwing and carried like a baby to Nimloth.

~

Elwing left the discussion with her mother in a huff and Ancalagon sneered after her. Nimloth did not immediately release him from his bonds however, and stared at him frowning for a long while. Ancalagon whined.

Nimloth ignored his complaint. “Who are you?” she signed.

Ancalagon the Black, The Biting Storm, the mightiest of all dragons, could only meow. Nimloth at last released him. Ancalagon sprinted around the room for a bit, ricocheting off furniture as he tried to shake off the effects of his captivity. At last he settled next to Nimloth who had picked up the book she was reading immediately after unbinding Ancalagon. She gave him another look, scratched the top of his head, and continued reading.

~

Straight-forward violence was out then, but Ancalagon knew there were other ways to defeat an enemy. Breaking someone’s spirit could be just as effective as breaking their body.

Ancalagon started with small acts of malice. He knocked hair brushes to the floor and sent writing utensils flying across the room. He kept one ear cocked for complaints from Eärendil, but heard nothing. He subtly increased his destruction. He sent a few bottles of scent to the floor, shattering them in the process. The next day he tipped over the plants on the window sill, sending dirt into Eärendil’s trunk. He spotted Elwing grabbing Nimloth’s attention and explaining the ruination that Ancalagon was wreaking, but Nimloth scoffed at the idea of Rogeg going into their rooms with ill intent.

Ancalagon grew bolder. One day, while Nimloth was out of the room getting a platter of sweets for them to share, he leaped on the table and knocked Eärendil’s glass over, spilling the drink all over his white tunic. Eärendil shouted in outrage, but Ancalagon ran out the window before he could do anything. He scurried through the branches to peer at the conversation through the other window.

When Nimloth returned with the sweets, Eärendil immediately explained what had happened and pointed to the window Ancalagon had escaped through. Nimloth walked over to the window and stuck half her body out, looking for Ancalagon. Ancalagon sat perfectly still at the other window. No cat discovered, she went back over to Eärendil.

“It could have been Rogeg, but I don’t see him anymore,” she signed.

Eärendil groaned.

“Just get another cup.” Nimloth shrugged.

Eärendil put a hand to his face. Then he signed, “I’m changing clothes,” and left.

Nimloth turned to the window Ancalagon was spying through and put her hands on her hips. Ancalagon stayed frozen. “Stop bothering the poor man,” she signed and left the room.

~

Ancalagon made a few more half-hearted attempts at destruction, but Eärendil had become wise to his schemes and everything breakable was either put away or kept close to the ground. He could claw apart his clothes or maybe even urinate on his belongings, but Ancalagon thought at that point he’d lose plausible deniability. For some reason he didn’t want Fishcake to be unhappy with him, and not just because of the fishcakes. He also reasoned that then he could lose his cave, and he had just started building up a good hoard.

He vanished there now, curling up in the cloth dome as he stewed over his impotence. He idly pawed through his collection, examining the mix of soft objects and beautiful trinkets. Here a sock, there a jade paperweight — a kitchen towel, scraps of samite stolen from the tailor who lived two trees over — whatever caught Ancalagon’s fancy.

He could not defeat Eärendil in battle; he could not even hound him properly. How unfair that he was trapped in such an impotent body, unable to claim the justice he deserved after an ignominious defeat. He deserved some sort of weregild for his death — maybe he would peruse the jewels Eärendil had brought with him and take a few for his hoard. And maybe another sock.

So determined, Ancalagon slipped into Eärendil’s room while he and Elwing were visiting their son. It was difficult to open the trunk and the jewelry box with only claws, but after struggling for a bit he succeeded.

The box was full of necklaces, rings, hair pieces and any other kind of ornamentation one could want. Ancalagon began pulling out his favorites. He wouldn’t take them all, just the very best. With an awkward mix of tooth and paw, Ancalagon removed the top tray.

The room filled with light, the loveliest blend of silver and gold that highlighted and softened the whole room. Curtains made of mundane linen seemed to gain silvery threads and the jewelry seemed to glow.

The light drew Ancalagon towards the box despite the sudden apprehension that descended upon him. He peered in, expecting pain. The Silmaril shone in a mithril circlet of wings and waves. It was definitely the jewel that had shot blinding light at him in his and Eärendil’s battle so long ago, sibling of those that shone in his master’s crown, but the light was no longer  searing. It shimmered, the jewel slumbering in its velvet bed.

Cautiously Ancalagon picked up the circlet with his mouth. There was no pain. He set it on the floor and tried to reassemble the jewelry box as best he could. He closed the trunk and traveled back to his cave, hiding whoever he heard voices or felt the vibrations of approaching footsteps.

Back in his cave at last, Ancalagon buried the circlet beneath his other treasures with great satisfaction. Now he and Eärendil were even, an ancient enmity laid to rest. He curled up and took a much deserved nap.

~

A cacophony woke Ancalagon. There was shouting, the sound of people running through halls, and the faint trembling of the stout branches as people went from level to level in the great-flet.

Snatches of consternation reached Ancalagon.

“…Gone like so…”

“Has been a theft, I…”

“…Missing, Valar…”

“…The house of Dior the Fair!”

Ancalagon felt the urge to look at his treasure again. He dug it up from the bottom of his hoard and lost himself in shining beauty for an indeterminate time. He shook himself from the tip of his nose to his tail and reburied the jewel. He considered what would draw the least suspicion, staying in his cave or leaving and maybe even ‘helping’ the hunt for the Silmaril. He decided to do the latter. After checking that no sign of silver-gold light shone through his cave, he left to join the hunt.

He peered behind bookshelves, sifted through ash, and opened cupboards with a paw swipe. In the back corner of a cupboard, he found a necklace strung with garnets and amethysts. Immensely pleased, Ancalagon carried the necklace to Nimloth and Dior where they directed the search from the central room of the great-flet. He set it down in front of Nimloth and batted her leg.

“Even Rogeg is helping!” Dior signed, but Nimloth just narrowed her eyes at him as she picked up the necklace. Ancalagon rubbed himself on her left leg, his purr a deep rumble he knew she could feel.

“Where else should we search?” she asked Ancalagon, her signs without emotional inflection. He meow-ed and nodded towards the outside, trying to communicate that they should search farther afield than the great-flet.

“Do not concern yourself with the outside yet,” Nimloth signed. “We’ve sent a few to quietly begin the search outside. It wouldn’t do to announce the Silmaril missing yet.”

Ancalagon searched indifferently after that. He had a sneaking suspicion Fishcake knew something, impossible as that might seem. The other searchers slowly drifted into the central room, tiring of looking and out of ideas of where to search. Eärendil paced back and forth, combing his fingers through his hair as he fretted. Elrond and Celebrían sat back to back on a footstool, eyeing his parents and grandparents as if they were a group of unruly children who had just started to get along.

A shadow flashed across the floor. Eärendil held out an arm and a hawk settled on it. “She says she hasn’t been able to spot it anywhere.”

“Thank you, Elwing,” Nimloth signed to the bird. Ancalagon lurched back from where he’d been cautiously approaching Eärendil. The bird was Elwing? Or perhaps Eärendil had just named his bird Elwing, in honor of his wife. That seemed like the simplistic and uncreative kind of thing he would do. 

Fingers stroked down his back and the smell of flowers and fruit with a smattering of ink grew stronger. Fishcake crouched down next to him. “Will you bring it to me?”

Ancalagon tilted his head to convey confusion.

Nimloth sighed and shook her head. “Who are you?” she signed again. She didn’t wait for an answer but straightened and snapped her fingers to get the rest of the room’s attention. “Follow me.”

To Ancalagon’s horror she led them straight to his room. Once inside, she turned to the cat. “Will you bring it to me?” she repeated.

Ancalagon hissed. He glared at Eärendil, but his gaze no longer held the dragon-power to befuddle and ensnare. With great reluctance Ancalagon entered his cave. The only thing worse than this display would be Nimloth emptying his full hoard onto the ground for all to see. He grabbed the circlet with his mouth and brought it out.

“You little thief!” Eärendil said, the pitch of his voice rising with outrage.

Ancalagon turned his head and began grooming his paws as if he did not care.

Dior signed, “Why would Rogeg go to all that trouble to steal the Silmaril? It’s not like he knew it was there.”

Nimloth gestured absently in agreement but continued to stare at Ancalagon.

“Well, the Silmaril has been found,” Dior said aloud. “You should probably lock the jewelry box you keep it in, Gaerdil.”^[4]

Eärendil bristled. “Perhaps you should do something about your cat! The beast holds evil in his heart, and seems to have a grudge against me in particular.”

“You’re worried about Rogeg?” Nimloth asked. Eärendil nodded. “Leave Rogeg to me. Do not worry over the Silmaril; it’s safe now.”

~

Ancalagon sat on a branch watching squirrels quarreling on a nearby tree with little interest. He felt the branch quiver underneath him, and the smell of ink and blackberries wafted over to him. Fishcake settled down next to him on the branch and joined him in his silent vigil.

After a while, she stroked the side of his face to get his attention. “Sometimes revenge seems like the path to satisfaction, but often it is hollow and only brings you pain.”

Ancalagon tilted his head at her. She continued, “Dior says you have a war-like spirit, but I think there’s more than that. You’re more like me than him — Dior can rage as much as anyone I’ve met, but once he’s spent his rage, and maybe dueled or hunted as well, he is as merry as a sunlit morning again.” She tapped a finger on the tree as she gazed at Ancalagon. “You’re not a true cat, are you?” she asked.

Ancalagon shook his head.

“Do you like being a cat?” Nimloth signed.

Ancalagon started to shake his head again, but then turned it to a tilt. He missed his powerful body, commanding voice, and flight capabilities, but there were advantages to being small and furry. He could be stealthy, fit into spaces he would hardly have noticed as a dragon, and a single bird was a filling meal.

“You are conflicted,” Nimloth noted. She pondered the issue, her eyes drawn to the antics of the squirrels. “I don’t think the Rodonnath^[5] bring us back until we are ready, and maybe some of us need more than waiting in Badhron’s^[6] care to prepare us to live again. Everyone thinks Dior and I waited so long among the dead because he was a special case — the first child of both the elder and the younger kindreds.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “I will tell you a secret, Rogeg; I have let them believe so because it suits us. It is good for the folk of this land to remember that many of their most beloved are different; we are not all tall, smooth-faced heroes with flaming eyes, yet we shaped the histories nonetheless. But our long stay in the Halls of Badhron was for my benefit alone; I knew I could not live among those who had wronged us, not without starting war anew.”

Ancalagon meeped and butted Fishcake with his head. He would need to figure out how to offer to make war on her enemies himself; perhaps this was why he had been brought back to life. But then, why did he not have his dragon-body back? That was a far superior form for war-making.

“Peace!” Nimloth laughed. “I learned to master my rage for my own sake, for Dior would not leave without me and yet I knew he longed for life. Now some of those who attacked us long ago live among us in our wood. 

“And don’t get any ideas about enacting vengeance for me,” Nimloth warned as Ancalagon looked around, as if he would suddenly be able to spot the miscreants living among them. “You should have learned well enough that you can’t win in a battle against an elf, and before I was full grown I tired of watching loved ones pick battles they were doomed to lose.”

She stroked him for a little while and then stood. “Think on how you can attain peace for yourself — Dior and I will help as we can.” Fishcake went back into the great-flet, leaving Ancalagon uneasily watching after her.

~

The next day Nimloth and Celebrían found Ancalagon.

“Rogeg,” Fishcake signed. “My cousin has had an insight I cannot believe I failed to see myself.” She motioned to Celebrían who unrolled a bundle in her arms. With a few tugs a light wooden frame sprang out, thin leather unfurling between each spoke. It looked like a pair of wings attached to a small harness.

“Will it work?” Nimloth signed, adding indicators of doubt.

Celebrían shrugged and fully faced Nimloth. “We need to run some tests first.” She held out the contraption to Ancalagon. “Can I put this on you?”

Ancalagon flattened his ears and twitched the tip of his tail at the outrageous suggestion.

Nimloth looked disappointed. “I thought you were onto something — that I was wrong about his desire to hunt birds and you were right about his observation of mechanics.”

“Come on,” Celebrían coaxed, still speaking to Ancalagon. “We won’t try much height — maybe ten feet at first.”

“Celebrian! I’m not going to let you throw my cat out of a tree,” Nimloth signed. “We need some other way of speaking with him. Rogeg, can you draw?” Ancalagon looked at her doubtfully. Nimloth motioned for him to follow her into the study. Celebrian wrestled the wings closed and followed them. Nimloth unrolled a large sheet of paper on the ground, holding down the corners with paperweights and set a pot of ink next to it. She motioned to him with encouragement. “Draw a picture of who you used to be.”

“Nimloth, I will give it to you that your cat is smart, but he can’t draw," Celebrían signed.

Ancalagon puffed up with indignation. He could draw — he had paws that moved as he willed. The stroke would be broad, but he could try. Ancalagon dipped a paw into the ink and began painting sweeping lines across the paper. He ran into a bit of an issue portraying his wings — he had drawn himself in profile and while the shape of the body was easy, the projection was hard to convey — but it wasn’t a bad likeness in his opinion.

Nimloth examined it from several angles and then nodded. “We have those here in Avon^[7].”

Ancalagon looked up in surprise. There were dragons in Aman? Then why was he a cat? He supposed it made sense that they would use a different word for dragons, and great-footed-snake was as good a description as any.

“Someone can take you to see them,” Nimloth signed.

“Elrond would be happy to take you,” Celebrían said. “He’s been talking of going to see the alattallóce for a while now. They’re not woodland creatures, but they live on the plains southwest of here.”

Ancalagon nodded vigorously. Maybe others of his kind would be able to tell him how to get his true form back.

~

To everyone’s surprise, Elrond convinced Eärendil to take him and Ancalagon to see the alattallóce. Ancalagon watched Celebrían hanging some new light fixtures in the dining room as she asked Elrond how he had managed.

“Adar^[8] likes to travel — of course he was happy to take me to the plains.”

“But that cat, yes you, you lazy thing,” Celebrían shot at Ancalagon where he sat supervising on the table, “has it out for Eärendil. And I still maintain his preoccupation with birds is because he wants to be one, not eat one, but isn’t Elwing a bit concerned?”

Elrond rubbed at his forehead. “My mother actually agrees with you.”

“Really? That’s a first.”

“Elwing likes you.”

“And I like her, but we had far too many awkward teas before you arrived,” Celebrian said.

“Well, what did you try — nevermind, she and Eärendil will take Rogeg and I to the plains. It should be fun.”

Ancalagon prepared for the trip by finding better hiding places than his cave for his favorite treasures and mentally preparing for how he would address the other dragons. He was worried they would not take him seriously and that he would not be able to properly communicate with them. Could he mentally contact the other dragons even though he could not speak with the elves? Would his body language be interpreted correctly despite his small frame?

The day of their departure dawned. Ancalagon followed Nimloth and Eärendil through the woods to a nearby tree that was as of yet too small to build a full house on. Nimloth bent so Ancalagon could leap up on her shoulder before climbing up to the platform, waving off Eärendil’s tepid offers to carry the cat.

Elrond was already sitting on the flet, leaning against a leather pack which looked to be of Celebrían’s make, talking to an egret, whose long neck bobbed occasionally in response to what he was saying. Ancalagon found himself suddenly reluctant to come down from Nimloth’s shoulder in the face of this very large bird and Elrond’s turn towards madness.

“Ready?” Elrond asked his father.

“Let’s be off,” said Eärendil, and walked to the edge or the flet where another ladder ascended through the leaves.

Elrond shouldered his pack and then knelt to allow Ancalagon to leap off of Nimloth and then onto the top of the pack. Once safely perched on Elrond’s back, Ancalagon shot the egret and then Fishcake a nervous look. The woman remained standing next to the white plumage as if she regularly spent time with large wading birds.

Seeing her look at him, Nimloth signed, “Good journey to you.” She then leaned against the egret and signed the same thing. The egret twined her neck over Nimloth’s shoulder. Ancalagon was shocked. The only person Nimloth was regularly physically affectionate with was Dior — even her petting of Ancalagon was restrained. Elrond had started ascending though, so he did not see any further oddities with the egret before he had to pay attention to the shifting pack and shoulder beneath him and work to cling without rending anything.

They climbed above the tree and then Ancalagon realized how they would be traveling to see the alattallóce. Fishcake had told him they would be sailing there — Ancalagon had assumed there was a river route they would take, but this was not the case. Over their heads swayed and sparkled a ship. In all respects it appeared to be a normal boat, yet it was floating aloft and tethered to the tree as if it would fly off if not restrained. 

Ancalagon knew that ship — it had been one of the last things he saw before he was plunged into darkness.

He meowed and looked down. He had discovered he could jump from relatively great heights despite his small size, but this was far too high for him to survive. There was nothing for it but to cling to Elrond and hoped there was no part of the ship that was crafted to harm him.

Elrond scrambled over the edge. “Alright, down you go Rogeg.”

Ancalagon remained clinging to the pack. Elrond’s shoulders shook with a chuckle. “Or up you stay, I suppose.”

The egret appeared, flying slightly above the ship and then circling down.

“How many times have you been on Vingilótë?” Eärendil asked Elrond.

“No more than a handful, you so rarely have time to ferry around your family for the joy of it.”

“Too right, too right.” Eärendil began pulling up the anchor. “Since the sundering it’s been less important to sail myself, but the edges of the pathless Void can never be left completely unguarded.”

Ancalagon watched the egret with apprehension; it was getting close. It dropped the last few feet to the desk, and there was Elwing, standing there in a tunic of white feathers where a bird had been a moment before.

Ancalagon yowled in alarm and jumped off of Elrond. Then he realized he was standing on the unnatural ship and yowled again as he leapt into the air.

“Oh no, poor Rogeg.” Elwing was helpless with laughter even as she approached Ancalagon with hands raised.

“Poor cat! He must have never seen you transform before,” Elrond said. Eärendil was leaning against the side of the ship, unable to fully stand he was laughing so hard. “This is probably a lot for him.” Elrond motioned to Ancalagon. “Come on, Rogeg. I’ll show you to our bunk.”

Through his fury at this ignominy, Ancalagon realized he was unharmed. The surface of the ship at least didn’t hurt in any way. He shook himself and followed Elrond, trying to convey haughty confidence. Eärendil and Elwing’s laughter followed him below the deck.

~

For the first part of the journey, Ancalagon remained in the pile of bedding below deck that he could call his own. He had thought traveling with Elrond would help, but he now realized that was folly. Elrond’s father was a blood-thirsty murderer with an unnatural ship and his mother was a bird — it was amazing he had managed to keep up the facade of normalcy for so long. Elrond didn’t force him to leave his bunk, but would check on him from time to time with a small smile and some dried meat.

After an unknown amount of time, Ancalagon was woken from a nap by the ship shuddering and the wood creaking around him. He realized that if something were to go wrong, being trapped inside the ship was likely the worst place to be. He determined to finally go above deck.

He climbed up the steps but could not raise the hatch himself. He was trapped. Ancalagon yelled as loud as he could and then began to scratch, glimmering wood shredding underneath his claws.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Eärendil opened the hatch and Ancalagon shot out.

“You need a cat door,” Elrond said from somewhere to the right.

“A cat door! It will be a hot day in Utumno before I add a cat door to Vingilótë.”

Ancalagon skittered to a stop — he was already at the stern of the ship. He looked around. The ship was still far too shiny, but nothing seemed to be wrong. The sails above him were full and billowing and the air was cool. Eärendil and Elrond were dressed in furs, their hands covered with wool wrappings. Ancalagon found to his surprise he was quite comfortable, his black fur shielding him from the bite of the cold.

“Letting out the full sail must have startled him. How fast do you think we’re going?” Elrond asked.

“52 knots,” Eärendil replied.

Elrond flashed a gesture of surprise.

“Your wife wanted to create a better system for measuring our speed the one time we traveled with her.”

Elrond laughed. “That sounds like her. She grew up in a city of learning. Most children when they ask their parents why the sky is blue get answers that involve the blue cloak of Manwë. If she asked why the sky was blue she would get an explanation that involved the composition of the air and the angle of the sun that would probably launch at least three investigations into the nature of light itself.”

Eärendil smiled. “I’m glad. I would never have thought such a place was possible when I left Middle-earth, but you must have, for you stayed even after choosing to remain one of the Eldar.”

“Yes, well, that was a long time ago.” Ancalagon left off his investigation of a storage area that had a sickly-sweet scent of rottenness to look at Elrond. There was a frustrated note he hadn’t heard before.

Elrond saw him turn and came towards the cat. “Would you like to see where we are?” he asked.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Eärendil called. “The cat has been so jumpy. If he leaps off the ship in fright I’m not sure Nimloth will let you live in the Wood anymore — although she might let Celebrían stay.”

Elrond waved dismissively at his father and walked with Ancalagon up a short flight of steps to the bow of the ship. “Ready?” he asked and held out his arms.

Ancalagon immediately leaped into Elrond’s arms, determined to show Eärendil how fearless and steady he was. Elrond stepped forward and set Ancalagon on the ship’s railing, hand still firmly around his middle. The wind was sharp here — it was cold enough that Ancalagon could feel it through his fur. But in this position, at the bow of the ship, the strange glimmering wood fell away and the blue sky and feathery clouds filled his vision. He looked down. Below, rolling green hills flowed below him. A sudden dark clump of trees appeared, and then to his right the patchwork of fields. He was flying.

Ancalagon watched the land unfolding below him, the occasional sight of a soaring bird seizing his attention. He had missed this so much — the feeling of speed, the scent of cold air, and the occasional shivering damp of clouds.

“I have to put you down now,” murmured Elrond.

Ancalagon started — he had no idea how long he had been watching. The wide expanse of the world vanished and the silver wood surrounded him again. Elrond hurried off to help Eärendil with something. Ancalagon looked back up at the railing. To think Eärendil thought such a thing was frightening. Ancalagon leaped back up and balanced on the edge. He found he could weave his limbs between the bars and make for himself a sturdy hold. The ship lurched and his theory was tested, but Ancalagon stayed steady in the bow of the ship.

There was a flutter of wings and a hawk landed next to him. The hawk stayed perched as the ship lurched again, and then Elwing stood next to him.

“Are you stuck?” she asked.

Ancalagon yawned at her before turning to watch the passage of the earth beneath them. The woman stood next to him for several moments before walking away. “Eärendil,” she called. “If anything happens to the cat we are blaming you.”

Ancalagon sighed happily — he was flying, and even if something went wrong that would mean the downfall of Eärendil. It was hard to think of a better situation.

~

The journey was much improved once Ancalagon began spending time above deck. He ate dinner at a windy table with the family. He had his own plate of dried meat and stewed grain and got plenty of pieces that the wind chased from forks as the family paused their meal to gesture and exclaim. Elves were so foolish — why did they tell stories when they could be eating? They had forever to speak with each other, and yet when they were in the midst of a tale nothing could be of greater importance to them.

No cat door was made, but Elrond devised a way to leave the hatch unfastened and yet not able to swing fully out. Elrond and Eärendil went below deck, while Elwing stayed above, now wearing a heavier wool tunic and pants, but still dressed more lightly than her husband and son. Ancalagon stayed above as well, curled into a ball shielded by a coil of rope.

A prickling feeling and a bad smell woke him. Ancalagon cocked an ear. There was a faint clicking sound on the edge of his hearing. He crept out of his nest and swiveled his head around to pinpoint the sound. The sound was getting louder — now a clear chittering, gnawing noise.

The sound grew louder. Ancalagon crept towards it. He thought he caught a whiff of something foul, but when he inhaled deeply he only smelled the fresh scent of the ship with faint traces of Eärendil and Elwing. There was a strange corner in the stern of the ship where the bench stopped asymmetrically. Then he saw a flash of white in the darkened corner as the shadow shifted. Ancalagon realized it was not an uneven part of the bench: it was some kind of dark creature gnawing on the ship. He saw the flash of teeth again this time from two places — the thing had at least two mouths and both were full of sharp teeth.

Ancalagon bent his front legs and tensed his hindquarters. He wiggled a bit in anticipation and then pounced. His teeth slowly sank into the darkness and then kept sinking. His jaws closed on nothing and blackness surrounded him. He shook violently, batting at his face, but the darkness was a physical thing that clung to him. He rolled on the ship and dashed his face against the side, panic growing. Then he roared. The roar came from some place deep inside him; it felt like it was springing from the source of his fiery breath when he was in dragon-form. The sound was not nearly as impressive as a dragon’s roar, but it seemed to be able to push at the dark thing in a way his paws could not.

He could see at last. Ancalagon bounced back and prepared to strike again. The dark thing wiggled, legs springing from the shadowed body. It was darker than dark, more than the absence of light; its darkness pressed outward and the stench Ancalagon thought he had smelled earlier wafted by him. He realized it was less a smell than a feeling; the knowledge that here was something that did not belong in the world.

He leapt at the shadow. This time he clamped down with something that was beyond his teeth, accessing a hidden awareness that there was more to a being than flesh, blood, and bone. He caught purchase in some slippery exoskeleton. Unlike the great-cat and Eärendil, the dark-thing was his size and Ancalagon was able to jerk it back and forth, although he couldn’t do a true shake. There was a shrill noise, almost inaudible it was so high, and the legs beat against him. It jabbed at his scarred eye and Ancalagon let go with a yowl. The shadow skittered away towards a hatch that led below.

A ray of silver-gold light shot across the deck. The shadow-thing stopped short and undulated, trapped in the beam of the Silmaril. Ancalagon too was stopped in his tracks; he remembered how that light had skewered him once, as if his own fire had been turned back on him.

The wriggling clump of darkness gathered itself and shot back across the deck. Ancalagon gave chase, instinct firing and shoving doubt to the side. He leaped again, extending his spirit-claws alongside his physical claws. He caught the shadow-thing with one paw, tossing it into the air. It hit the deck with a surprisingly loud thump and then the light of the Silmaril paralyzed it again — Ancalagon caught it with his teeth. The light was streaming around him, but it didn’t hurt. He shook his prey. Corners of dark seemed to spray from the shadow-thing. He tossed it up in the air and batted it a few times with his paws. There was a whistling sound almost too high to hear. He caught it again in his jaws. It felt smaller, and more darkness scattered from its body as he shook.

“One more time,” called Eärendil. Ancalagon tossed the dark-thing on the ground once again and pinned it with one paw. With the other he slashed across the shadow. He bit at it, tearing bits of dense dark off to be splintered by the Silmaril.

The whistling grew louder but then suddenly stopped, the remains of the dark-thing unmoving in the light.

Eärendil approached, a luminous halo of light emanating from his whole being, as if lit from within by the Silmaril. “It’s gone,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice.

“What do you mean it’s gone?” Elwing descended to the deck in a flurry of tawny feathers.

“I mean it’s vanquished, shredded; I think Rogeg was able to destroy the Void-rodent.”

Elwing narrowed her eyes at Rogeg. “How could a cat do what we could not? The most we’ve been able to do with the creatures is toss them overboard, and I’m not convinced that does anything since there’s always one more chomping at the ship.”

“Your mother says she thinks he is more than a cat.”

Elwing knelt and held out her hand to Ancalagon. Ancalagon eyed her with disdain. “I’m not sure I can deal with much more than a cat.”

Elrond came out from below, still wrapped in a blanket. “What’s going on?”

Eärendil sighed heavily. “Your grandmother may have been right.”

~

They arrived at their destination a day later. Eärendil steered the ship in an easy descent, anchoring against a cliff. They decided to climb up instead of gliding down immediately; Ancalagon deigned to perch on Elrond’s shoulder, claws sunk into a leather pauldron — also of Celebrían’s make — as they climbed up the rocky wall and cleared the top.

The golden fields spread out below them. Rippling grass stretched from the cliff, sudden jungles interrupting the vista, the shadows of clouds chasing across the land.

“There they are, your kindred,” Elrond said.

Ancalagon followed his hand. There, close enough to the cliff that they had not been immediately visible, walked gigantic creatures. Their long necks stretched out as long as their bodies, and their long tails waved back and forth, not unlike Ancalagon’s own, but on a mammoth scale and at a much slower rate.

When the wonder of beholding such behemoths wore off, a disappointed pang ran through Ancalagon. Yes, these creatures were magnificent, but they were not his brethren, or if they were, they were distant kin. Not only could they not fly, they appeared to only eat plants. Their fearsome size was not for hunting and their teeth were for crunching vegetation not tearing meat. They did not appear to breathe fire either, although when he attempted to ask Elrond, he exhibited only amusement and not comprehension over Ancalagon’s pantomimed fire-breath.

Elrond sat down next to him. Ancalagon felt so low he was not even tempted to bat at the loops of beaded necklaces he wore. “You seem sad,” he said. “Is this a wonder that has not lived up to your expectations?”

Ancalagon meowed in response, laying his head on his paws.

“There are worse things, but disappointment can still surprise you, even when you hadn’t even realized you were building anticipation.” Elrond leaned back, grey eyes hazy with memory. “The answers you seek might be unknown by the very wise, the white city was built to reflect a light-source that was destroyed, and the friends you had hoped to see may be gone forever.”

Ancalagon meowed again. He did not much care for contemplation, but he did think about himself often and Elrond’s words were reminding him of questions he still had no answer for. Why was he here in this bright, fragrant land, but with none of like kind? How should he live in this soft, small body — he who was built to raze cities and melt armies?

“Sometimes I wonder if this land is for me,” Elrond continued. “But Middle-earth was no longer my home, and I cannot regret my long years despite the great losses, so here I must make a place for myself.”

Ancalagon stood and planted his front paws on Elrond’s leg, stretching deeply. He had heard the man’s wisdom — now he was just indulging in self-pity. Petting Ancalagon was a more productive activity; elves had their uses, but Ancalagon appreciated their grasping fingers much more than their wagging tongues.

“Fine, fine, I will stop being maudlin and pet you!” Elrond laughed. “I am being very silly, when I should be focused on the serious business of assisting the journey of self-discovery my grandmother’s cat is on.”

Ancalagon sensed Elrond did not think the journey was as serious as all that and flicked his ears at him.

“Let’s see if I can identify what is wrong with the alattallocë,” Elrond said. “Nimloth will be disappointed if I return with only a story of your sour mood. Now, she said you thought they were kin. I’m going to ask a series of questions: nod for yes and shake your head for no.”

This sounded like a great deal of work; Ancalagon examined his tail to show his disinterest.

“Hey now, we cannot help you if you don’t speak. Unless you would like to be a sad creature who never achieves what he would?”

Ancalagon yawned but then fixed Elrond an unblinking stare, ‘go on’ written in every twitch of his nose.

Elrond passed a hand over his mouth, eyes sparkling with amusement, and asked his first question.

“Are they too big?”

Ancalagon shook his head emphatically.

“Really?” The skepticism in his grey eyes would have quelled a lesser being but Ancalagon merely blinked at him.

“Very well then. Is the scaled skin correct?”

Ancalagon nodded.

Elrond frowned out at the slow moving beasts. “Is their diet correct?”

Ancalagon shook his head.

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Elrond leaned back on his hands. “So, if you are carnivorous, you must move faster than these alattallóce.” 

Ancalagon nodded again. He reared upon his hind legs and tried to imitate a dragon’s presentation.

Elrond ran his hand over his beard, forehead still wrinkled in thought. “So what else is wrong? Gargantuan size, scaly skin, but fast — can catch prey.” He gave Ancalagon a sidelong look. “The body shape must be long, more like a worm or snake than like cattle.”

Ancalagon nodded vigorously.

“And you do love to fly. Curious. Well, surely we’ve learned all we can at this distance. Let’s go down and see what their keepers will tell us.”

~

They traveled down to the plain where on shaking ground the ancient herders of the alattallóce greeted them with joy. Elrond asked about different kinds alattallóce, searching for information on the carnivorous kinds and was given more than enough information to find them and every other type of large reptile he could want. By that time it was night and the large fires they built their camps around were lit, sending sparks up to meet the starry sky above them. 

The evening was rather too much like the parties Dior loved to throw, but without the convenience of tables and chairs to hide underneath inbetween hunting for the best morsels. These herders were of an ancient Vanyarin clan and lived simply. They had little but what the alattallóce gave them, but took their calling of tending to the balance of jungle and plain seriously and formed deep bonds with their animals.

Ancalagon went up to one of the giant creatures. He stayed wary — its toe was larger than he was. He circled the alattallóce and trotted underneath its vast bulk. He felt no spark of recognition and the animal seemed completely uninterested in him. Just as well — Ancalagon also had limited interest in what was essentially a giant hedge-trimmer.

The journey back was uneventful. Vingilot sailed straight and true, there were no further incursions of Void-rodents, and even Eärendil seemed more agreeable and less like an ornery patchy monkey. Ancalagon whiled away the hours by perching in the bow of the ship, feeling the wind card through his fur and watching the land beneath him.

The earth turned deep green below them and Vingilot began to descend. Ancalagon watched the great tree first sprout above the surrounding woods, then grow distinct branches with silvery lights set amidst the leaves.

Eärendil anchored against a neighboring tree and cast a net down to the top platform of Dior and Nimloth’s home. They climbed down, Ancalagon deigning to perch on Elrond’s shoulder although he was perfectly capable of climbing down himself to meet the King and Queen. They had been gone all of four days, but Dior had seen fit to prepare a party to celebrate their return; the strains of the musicians tuning their instruments drifted up to them along with the scent of venison, freshly baked bread, and the delicious crumbly pastries that Ancalagon enjoyed both fresh from the oven and cold off of abandoned plates.

Dior greeted them boisterously, even daring to scratch between Ancalagon’s ears. He hissed but didn’t bite; Ancalagon knew from experience that Dior interpreted biting as an invitation to wrestle, and he was very good at wrestling.

Ancalagon leapt to the ground and walked up to Nimloth, who bent down and allowed him to jump up onto her shoulders and drape himself behind her head.

So? Her question prodded his mind. Did you discover your true kindred?

Ancalagon let out an unhappy yowl. Elrond was already explaining the results of their journey as Eärendil laid out gifts for Dior and Nimloth; a new alattallóce-hide saddle for the King and boots for Nimloth.

“When will I need these?” Nimloth asked. She was barefoot now, and Ancalagon had only ever seen her wear light shoes.

“My love, did we not speak of traveling south—”

Nimloth motioned for someone to take away the boots and interrupted Dior. “—So Rogeg is not an alattallóce trapped in cat form.”

“No, but he believes he was very large and had a hardened carapace like them.” Elrond signed. “He was rather disdainful of their diet though.”

“There are similar beasts who eat meat,” Dior signed. “You must go further afield to see them though — it is not wise to build habitation near their own.”

Ancalagon meowed plaintively again.

“He enjoys flying,” Elwing pointed out. “His observations of birds might not have been solely predatory.”

Eärendil looked at Ancalagon, dawning realization warring with disbelief. “Does this cat think he’s a dragon?”

Dior laughed long and loud at that, and Nimloth’s shoulders shook underneath Ancalagon. This was too much to bear; Ancalagon leaped off her and flounced away, too angry to join the elves in their feasting.

~

Ancalagon went back to his cave, but didn’t stay there long. Once he ascertained all was in order he left for a better hiding place, somewhere no one would disturb him. The main entrance of the grand-flet had a few nooks which displayed pottery, small statues, and other pieces of art. The highest collection was on a surprisingly deep shelf and it was here Ancalagon hid, grumpily watching people bring food and drink to lower down to the celebration. 

“Love, where did that cursed cat go?” Celebrían’s clipped accent drifted up to him.

“He left in great offense.” Elrond was coming down from the left staircase. 

“You need to trim your beard, just because Dior—”

“I know, I know. We cannot all be Dior the Fair. Why are you looking for Rogeg?”

“I’ve made some enhancements to the wings.” There was a sound of unfolding leather and the snap of joints settling in place.

“How did you know? I’m sure I didn’t mention my suspicions.”

“Know what? Rogeg just reminded me of a certain boy who would only wear his ceremonial wraps after you’d convinced him it was ‘warrior clothing.’”

Celebrían’s voice held laughter but Elrond sighed heavily. “Still?” she asked, sober now.

“Only sometimes. Of late I’ve been able to distract myself with trying to help a cat who thinks he’s a dragon.”

“Oh, that’s what you meant by 'how did you know.'” Celebrían laughed.

“I’ve been wondering if there’s some truth to that.” Eärendil’s voice came from the main staircase. “Have you seen the cat anywhere? I think we’re overdue for a talk.”

“Do you think Rogeg is really a dragon, somehow sent to live among us in feline form?” Celebrían asked.

“Well, when you put it like that—” Eärendil began.

“—Stranger things have happened,” Elrond said.

“To your family maybe!” There was a ‘woah’ from Eärendil as Celebrían pushed whatever she was holding into his arms. “But what does it say about us that we married in? When you find Rogeg, give him his armor, will you? Come, Elrond, let’s join the party, and you can tell me all about the trip. Were the alattallóce everything you hoped? And what’s that under your arm?”

“It’s a bottle of spirits the herders gave us. They say it has properties not unlike the fungi—”

Elrond and Celebrían’s voices floated away down the steps.

“Now, where are you, Rogeg?” Eärendil muttered. He started up the right staircase.

Ancalagon briefly considered letting Eärendil search the whole grand-flet for him, but decided he was too curious about what Celebrían made. He leapt down and landed silently on the woven rug. He meowed once. 

Eärendil spun around. “Of course you were here the whole time. Listening in, I suppose?”

Ancalagon just blinked at him. Eärendil held out the object in his arms and squatted down. “Would you like to see what Celebrían made you?”

Ancalagon immediately trotted over. The winged contraption was as it had been, but instead of a harness, thin silver scales formed an armored shirt. Spikes marched around the collar and down the back. Ancalagon lifted a paw and carefully touched a spike; he was pleased to find they were sharp.

“This seems like a mistake,” Eärendil said, but unfastened the buckles around the neck and chest. “Do you want to try it on?”

Ancalagon eyed his foe. Green eyes warrily blinked back at him. The armor gleamed. Ancalagon stood, tail held out and head high. He nodded at Eärendil.

“Please remember you’re covered in spikes,” the man said as he placed the armor over Ancalagon. “And please understand that I am trying to form a truce with you.”

Ancalagon let Eärendil buckle the armor, resisting the urge to swat his hands away or bite. When the armor was on, Ancalagon realized the wings sat neatly against his body in most positions, but when he arched his back as he would when threatening someone or falling the wings flared out. He wondered how they would work — how far would they let him glide to the ground? Perhaps falling out of Vingilot would no longer be a concern. The realization that he assumed he would be flying aboard Vingilot again drew him up short. He would very much like to go flying again, but Eärendil—

Ancalagon spun to face Eärendil, back arched and wings flared. His foe looked back at him with a crooked smile, an elbow propped on his knee. “If you attack now, I will kick you off this flet and that will be the first test of those wings.”

Ancalagon meowed at him, conveying indignation and annoyance but let his spine assume a neutral position, tucking the wings back in.

“I’ve been thinking about the Void-rodent,” Eärendil said. “Long have I patrolled the borders of the world. Some days it’s my punishment, others a gift, always my duty.” He paused and looked away, worrying the scruff around his mouth. “It’s not like our trip was. It is dark and cold and it’s only me on Vingilótë. I’ve had even nastier stowaways before.”

Ancalagon sat down, curiosity piqued. Flying, fighting, exploring the dark edges of the world — nothing appealed to him more, even though it was with Eärendil. Maybe the man wasn’t so bad; he smelled like old biscuits, but maybe his underhanded ways were good in an ally. Then he thought of his soft cave and a quick olive hand giving him a fishcake and a scratch. How would Nimloth manage without him? Who would see her will done and sit with her when she wrote or read?

Eärendil sensed his hesitation. “Think on it — it might be good for both of us. Who knows, maybe I can add cat doors to the hatches.” He stood, and with a last sideways glance at the cat, he left for the party.

~

The party below did not stop, but it did change form and shift, with the most energetic among the revelers beginning a contest of feats of strength a few miles from the clearing in front of the great-flet, and the remainder either retiring for a brief rest or gathering to watch the sport as they reclined on cushions.

Ancalagon had dispelled the strange conversation with Eärendil by terrorizing a colony of ground squirrels and was feeling positive about both his hunting abilities and his new outfit. After cleaning himself off, he went to look for someone who could help him remove the armor – it was high time for a nap and the armor wasn’t that comfortable. 

He wandered through Nimloth’s bedroom and saw her sitting at her desk, her pen speeding over paper as she wrote. He batted her leg. 

She set down the pen and smiled at him. “The fit is excellent,” she signed. “You’ll be able to take on truly fearsome monsters now.”

Ancalagon meowed and Nimloth motioned him to jump onto her lap. She began unbuckling the armor. You must decide what is best for you, but it’s harder than it seems to find your perfect place in the world. I've always needed to make a place for myself — no one knew how to do it for me. — She set the armor aside and lifted her hands to speak. “Besides, that is the one trophy we do not have displayed in the house — one from beyond the fringes of the world.” Ancalagon settled down on her lap, mulling her words. “And of course, since the bending of the seas you need not always patrol the skies — your cave I will keep undisturbed so you can return your treasures to it and stay there when you visit.”

Ancalagon closed his eyes and let himself begin to drift. It felt like giving up in a way to join Eärendil upon Vingilot — there were yet more avenues to investigate in regards to dragons and how he had come to be here as a cat. Yet maybe exploring the edges of the Void was the perfect place to search for answers. And keeping his hunting skills sharp surely couldn’t hurt. He would think on it a little longer.

~

The sun shone on the meadow and the hall alike. Gold and purple flowers nodded, insects buzzed, and small animals tunneled in the warm dirt. The doors to the hall were flung open, one covered in a relief of dancing creatures, the other a scene of battle. Both were depicted with such joy though at first glance a visitor would not be able to tell the difference

Skeletal legs twitched one last time, the limbs somehow too hardened and too floppy at once.

“I don’t like it.” The bumblebee grew, antennae retracting, multi-clustered eyes collapsing into two, fuzz vanishing, and two long bright yellow braids tumbling from her head. 

The ant finished her investigation of the corpse and also grew, black armor retreating until it sat on her shoulders in ancient war-like splendor, her shaved head gleaming ebony in the field. “I wonder if Oromë can taxidermy this,” Tulkas said with a triumphant smirk.

“It’s not going in the main temple,” said Nessa. 

“Of course not! This deserves a place of honor in the wrestling room.” Tulkas picked up the Void-rodent and carried it into the hall, her wife following.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Nessa said. “I always thought you were onto something, but I do wonder what’s next.”

“There are more dragons whose spirits we’ve caught. I thought the cat form was a nice touch, but I could see a squirrel working well too.”

“You’ll have to talk to Vairë about that — she asked about borrowing your presentation notes.”

“Really?” Tulkas tossed the Void-rodent on the table and considered how best to preserve that-which-should-never-be-but-is-nonetheless-laying-on-your-workroom-table-and-would-look-very-cool-over-the-mantle. “She speaks in the council even less than I do.”

“I don’t know, but I heard Námo say something about ‘far too many legs,’ so I’m not sure I want to find out.”

“Concerning,” said Tulkas. She looked at her wall of trophies. It included dragon skulls and balrog heads as well as some creatures that there weren’t even names for. “I think I can convince them we should do another dragon next though. Say, is that little fellow still around?”

“Bilbo? I should think so — he hasn’t finished the full tour of the fourteen realms yet.”

“Good, I need to talk to him about an old acquaintance.”