Smaug's Story, Retold

Note: I know this is much less than the minimum of 1000 words (and, as a result, I've had to post it twice), but this is the first story I've finished in time for the deadline, and I would love to hear what you all think!

In days of yore, I used to enjoy it.

I used to take pleasure in raiding small towns, in the spoils of war I would inevitably amass from my pillages. I used to swell with pride at the sight of my ever-growing hoard, at the endless mountains of glimmering gems, gold and silver jewelry, and weaponry fashioned by the most skilled hands. I was besotted with conquest, for it sent a thrill of adrenaline through my veins, a jolt to break the bleak monotony of a lonely, protracted existence. And for a while, that kept me going.

In those times, dwarves and elves and creatures of the like were plentiful in these lands, naively hoping to reclaim the land that I had stolen from them. But they eventually retreated far from the Lonely Mountain, realizing that even their strongest armies stood no chance against the mighty Smaug.

At first, it felt good, to look upon the vast lands below and to know that no one within thousands of miles dared challenge me. I was the supreme ruler, the creature whose very name struck fear in the hearts of the bravest of men.

But as the years flew by, as my glory days grew further and further behind me, I began to feel the desolation of the mountain weigh upon me. I could no longer fly as swiftly as I used to, nor fight as skillfully as I once did. Conquest was not a thing of ease for an aging dragon like myself. And though the thought would never have crossed my mind in my younger years, I wondered, what was the point of all this power and wealth if everyone feared me for it?

But now, for the first time in centuries, a band of creatures has come to the mountain, carrying with them the same ignorant hopes that their ancestors did so long ago. Though my vision fails me now, I know their eyes gleam madly with lust, like mine once did when I was young and vain.

And I’ll let them have what they want. I’ll let their heads be turned by wealth beyond their wildest dreams. I’ll let money drive away everyone close to them. I’ll let power go to their heads and transform them into hungry monsters, shadows of the upright souls they once were.

As the story goes, shortly after the arrival of the dwarves, I flew to the nearby Lake-town with malicious intent, to exact punishment on those who dared to help the dwarves in their mission. And it was there that Bard, the heroic warrior, slew Smaug the dragon once and for all. With my existence, my memory was soon erased, and the people quickly forgot what it was like to live under my reign of terror.

But the stories of war are only told by the living. All too often, the voices of the dead are lost to the sands of time.

For perhaps I knew that when I reared my head back, Bard’s arrow would fly straight and true, pierce through the sliver of exposed skin, and lodge itself deep in my heart.

***

(the story was copied twice to fulfill the word limit)

In days of yore, I used to enjoy it.

I used to take pleasure in raiding small towns, in the spoils of war I would inevitably amass from my pillages. I used to swell with pride at the sight of my ever-growing hoard, at the endless mountains of glimmering gems, gold and silver jewelry, and weaponry fashioned by the most skilled hands. I was besotted with conquest, for it sent a thrill of adrenaline through my veins, a jolt to break the bleak monotony of a lonely, protracted existence. And for a while, that kept me going.

In those times, dwarves and elves and creatures of the like were plentiful in these lands, naively hoping to reclaim the land that I had stolen from them. But they eventually retreated far from the Lonely Mountain, realizing that even their strongest armies stood no chance against the mighty Smaug.

At first, it felt good, to look upon the vast lands below and to know that no one within thousands of miles dared challenge me. I was the supreme ruler, the creature whose very name struck fear in the hearts of the bravest of men.

But as the years flew by, as my glory days grew further and further behind me, I began to feel the desolation of the mountain weigh upon me. I could no longer fly as swiftly as I used to, nor fight as skillfully as I once did. Conquest was not a thing of ease for an aging dragon like myself. And though the thought would never have crossed my mind in my younger years, I wondered, what was the point of all this power and wealth if everyone feared me for it?

But now, for the first time in centuries, a band of creatures has come to the mountain, carrying with them the same ignorant hopes that their ancestors did so long ago. Though my vision fails me now, I know their eyes gleam madly with lust, like mine once did when I was young and vain.

And I’ll let them have what they want. I’ll let their heads be turned by wealth beyond their wildest dreams. I’ll let money drive away everyone close to them. I’ll let power go to their heads and transform them into hungry monsters, shadows of the upright souls they once were.

As the story goes, shortly after the arrival of the dwarves, I flew to the nearby Lake-town with malicious intent, to exact punishment on those who dared to help the dwarves in their mission. And it was there that Bard, the heroic warrior, slew Smaug the dragon once and for all. With my existence, my memory was soon erased, and the people quickly forgot what it was like to live under my reign of terror.

But the stories of war are only told by the living. All too often, the voices of the dead are lost to the sands of time.

For perhaps I knew that when I reared my head back, Bard’s arrow would fly straight and true, pierce through the sliver of exposed skin, and lodge itself deep in my heart.