In my solitude I wrote three commandments:
You will be fierce, you will be fragile, you will be free.

(On the birth of Ancalagon)

You will be unlike anything the world has seen. You will know my name.
You will be a new thing, born to fly, born to fire. You will be a shadow such as the skies have never seen. The pale starlight will shatter on your back, and in your eyes and the hollow of your throat, fire will kindle and live, wild and constrained as the fire beneath the earth. You may unloose it where you wish, my child, for the heat will send you spinning higher into the sky, and you will find the embers and the sound of flame beautiful.

You will be a soaring nightmare, and that will give you certain limitations: your bones blown-glass, your scales flakes of obsidian. You will fly on the breath of volcanoes and ride upon the back of the morning thermal, but you will be unable to rise on your own.
Your legs, alas, must be short; you will struggle, upon the ground, but my child, you will be a terror of the skies.

Some day I will leave this place, and I will forge you of stone and air and fire, all the tools of those who imprisoned me. They will never bind you.

I will never bind you.

You will be unlike anything the world has seen.

You will know my name.