Magnificent beast

There was the Hero, shining sword in hand, clad in armour of dark, gleaming scales. There, the Dragon, dagger-fangs bared, tail whipping with menace. Between them, a stony stretch of desolation, thickening with impending violence. A mournful breeze sang its forlorn dirge over the jagged edges of the rocks around the lair. Only to be rudely interrupted as the Hero flung open the visor of his helmet and cried out his challenge.

"Is there really no other way?"

The Dragon blinked. Then it closed its mouth, its tail slowing its deadly dance, and slightly cocked its head.

"I mean," the Hero continued, "it really is a crying shame about such a magnificent beast."

A forked tongue flicked out of the scaly mouth and back, as if to taste the meaning of this. 

 "Explain," it hissed.

"I'm not really talking about killing you," said the Hero. "I've put down a dozen of your sort before. It's really getting a bit repetitive. No, as it is, it's an act of mercy really. I mean, look at you!" 

The Hero flung out an arm towards the Dragon, inviting it to regard itself. It obliged warily, keeping one eye on the sword. Then it looked back. 

"Magnificent beast, did you not say?" it said.

"You would be," the Hero said, nodding, "if you weren't in such a sorry state. Bloated from being fed with cattle from the villages. You remind me of those glutton lords, sitting flat on their larded butts while their tables bend under the product of others' toil. Disgraceful. When did you last catch a stag?"

The Dragon licked its lips, eyes flaring.

"Hunting is overrated. I do not like to go hungry." 

The Hero scoffed. "Sloth. How could you ever look a wild dragon in the eyes? But listen to this, worm!" The Hero leant forward and held out his hand as if offering something precious. "You could be that magnificent beast again, that once you surely were! Leave this place! Go into the wilderness! Be its master, its glorious warrior king, instead of the pitiful glutton lord of these pastoral lands." 

“Pitiful?” The ground shook under the Dragon’s outrage. “What says I do not simply roast you for your insolence?”

“Three things,” the Hero replied, unruffled. “For one, I wear armour made from dragon scales and imbued with the breath of the frost sylphs of the far north. Your hottest fire would be like a summer breeze around it.”

“Phaugh!” the Dragon snorted. “Why should I believe such a claim?”

“For the second reason you should not even try your breath on me,” the Hero said. “I carry the Sword of Truth, whose light shines only for those who live by truth. By its light, I tell no lie. And if you try your flame on me, I have no choice but setting it to you. Can you not see the Light of Truth in your eyes?” He held aloft his sword, letting a ray of manicoloured light fall in the Dragon’s eyes. It blinked, twisting its head away from the gleam.

“I see light from your sword but I see no truth in it.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” the Hero said sardonically. “This sword is so deadly to your kind because dragons are creatures of deceit. And as such, you also cannot see the Truth in any light.”

“But we are,” the Dragon noted slyly, “as you so astutely observe, creatures of deceit and that we do know. This looks very much like deceit to me.”

“Oft doth Truth look like deceit to those who can or will not see it”, the Hero recited. “But tell me this: if I had not already killed twelve of your kindred, using my dragon armour and the Sword of Truth, would I then come so brazenly to challenge you?” He shook his head sadly. “The twelfth dragon also chose to take truth for deceit, alas. I am hoping thirteen will be my lucky number.”

“Lucky?” the Dragon asked, puzzled. “I thought a hero considered it fortunate to have slain so many dragons. Surely having me fly off into the wilderness, as you suggest, will do nothing for your renown?”

The Hero smiled gently. “Renown is nothing to me. You have never heard of me, have you? I work alone and ask no credit for it. I take what little I need from the hoards of the dragons I slay and leave the rest. Often others have come after me to claim the victory and the treasure. I do not mind. I work only for the betterment of the poor peasants whom your kind oppresses. And lately…” he paused, shaking his head sadly. “Lately I have worked for the betterment of your kind as well. I have seen the dragons of the wilderness. Proud, fierce creatures, admirable in their might! Perhaps,” he mused, “you fled those lands because you could not compete with them? Perhaps you are indeed unfit for that life, forced to scavenge on humans for your survival?” 

The Hero looked straight at the Dragon now, whose eyes had kindled with a yellow flame at those words. Sulphuric wisps of smoke trailed out of its nostrils. 

“But I like to think not,” the Hero resumed. “I like to think that you can return to your true home and be once more the magnificent beast that you should be.” He shrugged. “I have had little success so far. Perhaps it is a doomed cause and I can only go on weeding out the sad, fallen creatures you have become. But please consider it. Deep down, you know what I tell you is no lie. And that is the third reason you should not try to roast me.”

The yellow gleam in those eyes shifted slowly to green and the smoke abated. The Dragon bared its fangs again, raising its head high above the Hero, looking down at him from first one side, then the other. The Hero held his sword between them, its tip towards the sky.

“You are wrong,” it said at last. “I am no outcast weakling. I have grown strong and cunning in these lands. If there are wild dragons out there as you say, they would be no match for me. But your words have sparked my curiosity.” It raised its head even higher, gazing to the north. “It has been long since I left those lands. Perhaps it is time to go see them again. I will do as you suggest.” Then it looked once more at the Hero, its head shooting forward yet still out of reach from the shining sword. “For your tale, little human, I will let you live. Think not that I fear you nor your sword. If I find it not to my liking there, I shall return to your lands.”

“If you do,” the Hero replied, “I shall be there to meet you and you will learn the Truth on the last of your days.” Then he raised his sword on high, smiling. “I thank thee, O magnificent beast, and I will think of thee when I tell my tales of the fierce dragons of the wilderness, its uncrowned warrior kings!”

The Dragon bounded up to the top of the hill over its lair, spread its wings wide and let out a deafening roar. Then it leapt into the sky and its wings whipped up a thunder and a gale.

“I salute thee,” the Hero shouted as it hove into the sky, “O dragon wiser than twelve dragons! On, fly on to glory!”

With a last shriek and a burst of flame into the sky, the dragon wheeled away towards the north.

The Hero remained poised in salute until the Dragon was well out of sight. Then he sat down on a rock, doffed his helmet with hands that shook like aspen leaves and breathed a loud sigh of relief. Shaking off his leather gauntlets, borrowed from the smithy, he rubbed fiercely at his eyes, tearing up in the aftermath of the encounter. 

The leather jerkin with its lacquered wooden scales was growing uncomfortable, but it took a while to unlace it with his trembling fingers. Then he picked up his father’s old, blunt sword, adorned with a multitude of little glass crystals, and laid it across his lap. With a weak grin he twisted it around, reflecting the light from the mirrored lantern hidden from the Dragon’s sight behind a rock. It sent rainbows dancing over the ground, a delightful trick that father had often entertained them with during long winter evenings.

“So much for the fabled cunning of dragons,” he muttered. Then he rose unsteadily and packed the things up to begin the trek back to the village.