The Sword of the Morning and the First Dragon

Fifty years had passed since Arinyanénar's arrival in Nargothrond. The hidden kingdom had thrived during those years, its people bolstered not only by the wisdom of Finrod Felagund but by the fiery resolve of the prince who had come from the Avari. Among the Noldor, Arinyanénar had built a fearsome reputation, his deeds in battle earning him the name Macil Aurëa—the Sword of the Morning. It was a title of respect and reverence, spoken with admiration by the warriors he fought beside and the people he protected. Only his family and closest friends dared call him by his true name now.

Word spread quickly when Finrod received the message: a monstrous beast had emerged from the gates of Angband, laying waste to the lands of Ard-galen and scattering the Noldor forces sent to stop it. The descriptions were like something out of a nightmare—a massive creature with a body like molten bronze, claws that raked through the earth, and a maw that spewed flame and smoke. The name Glaurung was whispered in fear.

When Finrod turned to his council for advice, all eyes naturally shifted to Arinyanénar. The prince, clad in his golden armor and bearing Amanarótar at his hip, rose from his seat with calm determination.

"I will go," he said, his voice steady. "If this beast comes from Angband, it is a servant of Morgoth, and I will show it the price of daring to leave its master's shadow."

Finrod frowned, concern etched into his face. "Glaurung is no mere beast, Arinyanénar. He is cunning and strong. Do not take this lightly."

"I do not," Arinyanénar replied. "But if he is as fearsome as they say, he will not stop until someone stands against him. Let it be me."

Reluctantly, Finrod gave his blessing, and Arinyanénar departed at first light, riding Goldenstar north toward Ard-galen.

The vast plain of Ard-galen stretched out before him, its once-green grasses now scorched and blackened. Smoke hung in the air, and the scent of ash stung his nostrils. As he approached the encampment of the Noldor, he was met by a group of riders—mounted archers, their bows slung over their shoulders. At their head rode Fingon, son of High King Fingolfin, his dark hair streaming behind him like a banner.

"Arinyanénar!" Fingon called, his tone a mix of relief and urgency. "You have come at last. The beast lies not far from here, resting among the ruins it has made. I was preparing to confront it."

Arinyanénar dismounted, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the scorched horizon. "With archers?" he asked, his voice carrying a hint of skepticism.

Fingon frowned. "We are mounted and swift. We will strike and retreat before it can bring its flames to bear."

"No," Arinyanénar said firmly. "You have seen the destruction this creature can cause. Your arrows will sting it but little, and it will only enrage the beast further. I will confront it alone."

Fingon bristled. "Do you take me for a coward? I will not let you face this alone while I sit idly by!"

"You will not sit idly," Arinyanénar replied. "You will hold your company here, ready to aid the wounded and defend against any orcs that might follow. But this creature needs a single target, not many. Let me show it its place."

Fingon hesitated, his pride warring with his reason. Finally, he nodded. "Very well. But if you fall, Arinyanénar, know that I will avenge you."

Arinyanénar smiled faintly. "If I fall, cousin, then you will need more than vengeance."

He mounted Goldenstar again and rode out, his golden blade gleaming at his side and his helm catching the light of the rising sun. As he approached the charred remains of what had once been a grove of trees, he saw it—Glaurung.

The dragon was massive, its scales a dull, molten gold that seemed to shift and shimmer like liquid fire. Its eyes glowed like coals, and smoke curled from its nostrils as it lay sprawled among the ruins. Its tail lashed idly, carving deep furrows into the earth, and its claws gleamed like iron. When it saw Arinyanénar approach, it rose, unfolding its bulk with a terrifying grace. The ground seemed to tremble beneath its weight.

"Another morsel for the fire," Glaurung rumbled, his voice deep and mocking. "Have you come to offer yourself to me, elf?"

Arinyanénar dismounted, drawing Amanarótar with a sharp, ringing sound. The blade flared to life, golden flames licking along its edge. He met the dragon's gaze without fear.

"I am Macil Aurëa," he said, his voice cutting through the smoky air. "And you will find no feast here, serpent. Only your doom."

Glaurung laughed, a low, rumbling sound that shook the ground. "Brave words from a fragile creature. Let us see if your flame burns as bright as your tongue."

The dragon lunged, its jaws snapping toward him with terrifying speed. But Arinyanénar was faster, darting to the side and slashing at Glaurung's flank. Amanarótar bit deep, its golden flames searing through the dragon's scales. Glaurung roared in pain, a sound that echoed across the plain.

The battle was fierce and unrelenting. Glaurung's fire scorched the earth, creating walls of flame that Arinyanénar had to navigate with precision. Goldenstar remained a safe distance away, neighing in agitation as the prince fought. Amanarótar shone like a beacon, its light cutting through the smoke and ash.

Arinyanénar unleashed the sword's power, sending waves of blinding light and searing heat toward the dragon. Glaurung reeled, his thick hide smoking and blistering where the blade struck. But the dragon fought back with ferocity, its claws raking at the ground and its tail sweeping in devastating arcs.

At one point, the beast lunged again, its jaws snapping just inches from Arinyanénar's head. He retaliated with a powerful strike, driving Amanarótar into the dragon's chest. The blade flared with golden flames, and Glaurung bellowed in agony, staggering back. Smoke poured from its wounds, and its fiery breath grew ragged.

"You dare wound me?" Glaurung snarled, his voice trembling with rage. "I will remember you, elf. But this is not the end."

With that, the dragon turned, its massive form retreating toward the north. Arinyanénar watched as it fled, its fiery light diminishing into the distance.

When he returned to Fingon's camp, the Noldor greeted him with awe and reverence. Even Fingon, ever proud, bowed his head in respect.

"The dragon fled," Fingon said, his tone both relieved and impressed. "You have done what few could, cousin. You are indeed the Sword of the Morning."

It is now the 260th year of the Sun of the First Age.