Stars, hide your fires by Lyra, Independence1776, , Fernstrike, , Raiyana

Chapter 7: Fin

irion's son had retrieved his father's Black Arrow the day the dragon came. The sky had turned to bright and burning red, the clouds all limned with gold, the stones themselves deformed by the fire hot enough to turn them molten for several brief, terrifying moments. And his little boy had fled, his tiny hand in his mother's, his other fist gripped around the ebony shaft of the Arrow - shot, recovered, and then dropped to the ground as a collapsing balcony had taken out his father before his eyes.

Later, crouched in a too-small boat, he had cradled the thing, caressing the metal head, so sharp and shining, like stars set in a cloudless sky, and deeper dark than the rushing black water. It almost seemed to smile at him, that curve in its finely crafted design. A Dwarven weapon, his father had said; a token of good friendship when they had settled in Erebor, and opened their trade with Dale. So his father had told him. His father, who now lay buried beneath rubble under a starless sky, passed over by the shadow of a dragon's wings.

The arrow seemed almost to look at him, although it had no eyes, and no mind that he knew of. It seemed to be imploring him. It seemed to hold a promise, one it was trying to leech into his hands and heart and thoughts as he traced its edge.

"Mind your fingers," his mother had murmured, one arm clasped around him as the other swiped soot and blood from his face with her sleeve. He could hear the trembling in her voice.

He held out the arrow. "What do we do with this?"

She swallowed heavily, and ran her fingers gently over the head, the shaft, the delicate yet strong fletching. "We take care of it. It is hope, dear one. It is hope."

---

t last!

Again there is a great burning, of sky and heavens and earth so deep, and here we are. Here we are poised and ready.

And the lord, our lord he reaches for us - only us, at the last! - for he knows our aim to be true. We know his heart. We know his blood. And he trusts us as his line has always done. We will not fail him. We will not fail the true heart of our Wielder, we will read the conviction in his grim face and make it our own, and we will fly.

And we hear the message of the thrush by his ear, and it hums within us, it sets our self ringing within, and his speech adds words to form the song into perfect strands, directions, a guide - "If ever you came from the forges of the true King under the Mountain, go now and speed well!"

And we do. At last! Our long purpose - Dragonsbane of old, of new; of then, of now; of there, of here - at last we are come to our fruition. At last we make the landing we were always meant for. We no longer listen to Songs - we make them. And the thrill of the purpose transforms us.

Our lord and Wielder releases us, and we fly! Swifter than a dragon's wings, sharper than a dragon's claw, brighter than a dragon's flame -

And we find our mark in the bared patch of his belly.

The sky is hot, until the water comes closer. We hurtle down through the burning town, locked in the deadweight, and we are quenched at last. And there is no more pain.

Even stars die, when their purpose is run. But inside them we were made. And in fulfilling our purpose, we are made anew.