Nathaniel Sand-In-His-Shoes wasn’t the first in the dungeon to venture up to the sixth floor. There was a dragon already there.

Technically the sixth floor didn’t exist. It hadn’t been built by Sam, his dad, or by any of the worker mobs, and wasn’t part of the dungeon proper. But there was a long sloping tunnel that had been dug through the solid rock, by claws that people only associated with shredding steel, the detritus shoveled aside by wings that were useful for so much more then simple flight. And the tunnel led from the end of one of the mob-constructed corridors to a wide ledge, perfectly suited for a flying reptile the size of a small castle to alight upon after a long soar.

It was amazing how many details stuck with you after they’ve been explained to you by an ancient red dragon.

The first time Nat had climbed up this tunnel, he’d been scared. Even after everything, the battle of the wall, the return of Quentin, and the subsequent rout of the enemy, the great wyrm was still a… Well, Great Wyrm. All teeth and claws and ability to convert armies of high-level enemies to fine ash and a smattering of hard-to-burn bones.

But after that first time, Nat found it impossible to remain afraid.

“You’re sure red dragons like this stuff?" he asked Sheshek, shifting the bundle in his arms and trying to ignore the smell of very raw meat mixed with… other things.

“Oh yes,” Sheshek said with a smile and a nod. “Freshly-slain pork mixed with sulfur and shale and a few other tidbits is one of the finest meals you can swallow if you are a sky tyrant.”

“Okay, I mean, the pork and the sulfur I get, kinda. I mean, the meat is obvious, and I guess the sulfur has something to do with the flame? But, why shale? Shale’s a rock. Why would dragons eat rock?”

“It acts as a natural cleanser. A dragon’s digestive system is a complex series of stomachs and secondary bladders used for processing various forms of sustenance. A dragon is omnivorous, and occasionally needs a dose of shale or similar soft stone to… Ah… Clean out the pipes, as it were.”

Nat winced. “Thanks. I regret having asked the question.”

“As it should be,” the elderly kobold nodded sagely. “I want you to know, Nathaniel, this is a good thing you are doing.”

“I had to do something, y’know?” Nat said, shrugging uncomfortably and not just because of the weird meal he was lugging up six floors.

“No, you did not,” the old kobold said with a quiet smile. “And many would not, in similar situations. That you are taking this path speaks volumes as to your character, good elf.”

It was strange, being praised by a kobold. Before Sam had introduced him to the little scaled folk, Nat had—like most of the rest of the world—considered kobolds little more than nuisances who lived in tunnels and mostly kept to themselves when they weren’t stealing from their neighbors or occasionally delving into demon worship.

“I… Thanks,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

The rest of the walk passed in silence, and soon the tunnel opened up onto the wide rocky ledge that Quentin-Of-The-Skies had claimed for his home. The huge dragon was still where he had settled after the battle, on his side, his belly rising and falling with each breath. His great head was pointed out towards the open sky, his golden eyes wide open and staring.

They closed only when the tears came.

The great dragon wept silently, his tears hot enough to score the rock beneath him. The last time Nat had been up here, the dragon had not been silent. The great heaving sobs of the wyrm had broken the elf’s heart and scorched his soul. He hadn’t known what to do then, and had gone seeking advice. Sheshek, the shaman and eldest of his tribe, had had a few ideas.

“Quentin?” Nat’s voice sounded thin and reedy next to the great wyrm’s deep basso breathing.

“Thou hast returned, Nathaniel.” The dragon’s eyes never strayed from the skyline, his great body never shifted. “What doest thou need?”

“I uh…” Nat swallowed. He wasn’t afraid, not really, but there was something about standing next to an ancient creature formed from both nobility and an endless capacity for destruction that still set him on edge. “I brought you some lunch. You haven’t eaten since the battle, maybe since before that, and I figured—“

“Leave me, Nathaniel. Thine intentions are good, but I would be alone for a time.”

Nat looked down at the cauldron full of… Best not to dwell on what it was full of. Then back up at Quentin. The dragon’s scales were dull and lifeless. The crest atop his massive head drooped and seemed to wither. Even his golden eyes had lost their glow.

“No.”

The word came from Nat’s mouth before he had a chance to think about what he was saying. It hung in the air for almost a full second before his own eyes flew open wide and his heart started to race. That… May not have been the most diplomatic way he could have voiced a refusal.

Quentin’s body stilled, then his head came up and swung around, eyes turning to regard Nat with a narrowed gaze.

“What?” There was a dangerous edge to the dragon’s voice.

Nat’s knees shook and his palms got sweaty on the cauldron’s handle. For a second he almost fled, leaving the lunch and dashing back down the tunnel into the relative safety of the dungeon.

But no. No. He was committed. And damn it, Quentin was his… Friend? Sort of? It was rather difficult to define what exactly the relationship between them was. But whatever it was, it existed, and Nat’s whatever-he-was was in pain. And he wasn’t going to walk away.

Never again.

“No,” he repeated, stronger and gentler at the same time. “You shouldn’t be alone right now. Not after… Everything.” He swallowed and shuffled closer to Quentin. “Here,” he said, raising the cauldron up. “I brought you something. You need to eat.”

“The contents of thine cauldron would feed me for bare minutes, Nathaniel. A dragon need only feed once every three months, and then we gorge upon cattle and swine or freshly slain mutton or venison. Fish, in a pinch. Suffice to say I need not thy pitiful meal. Though… I thank thee for the thought.”

Nat moved around the ledge until he stood in front of Quentin’s head. Up close the great wyrm should have been terrifying. Teeth longer than his legs, claws that had ripped through solid stone like it had been tissue paper. The great crested head seemed designed by some ancient hand specifically to strike fear into all who looked upon it.

Except for today.

“Um,” Nat swallowed and set the cauldron down in front of the dragon. “Look, Quentin, I can’t say I know exactly what you’re going through—“

“What I am going through?” The roar thundered through the sky and knocked Nat backwards onto his ass.

“What I am going through,” Quentin’s voice dropped from a roar to a quiet deadly hiss, “is that I am the last of my kind, Nathaniel. She who my family pledged loyalty to thousands of years ago has returned, and in a single day, because of my actions, she hast slain every last one! My message lists are empty, Nathaniel! Dragons I have known since they were hatchlings have been torn from this reality! Friends, family, even treasured foes! I am alone Nathaniel, and when I perish in this war, my line, my race perishes with me!

“That,” and just as suddenly the fire was gone, leaving nothing but bleak despair in its wake, “is what I am going through. Leave me, Nathaniel. I thank thee for thy gift and for thy thoughtfulness, but they are useless here.”

Slowly, Nat heaved himself back to his feet and edged away. His heart hammered in his chest, and he felt nervous sweat slicking up his palms. The dragon regarded him for a moment more, then turned his head away to stare out at the sky.

Nat opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. He had no words for that. How do you cheer up an ancient flying reptile when it was faced with… Well. With something like the end of his entire race?

The elf turned away slowly and started back down the tunnel. He left the cauldron—untouched—behind. The dragon didn’t even look at it.

This was a bad idea.

Guess I need a better one then.

Nat: Hey aunt Annie, can I talk to you for a second?