The Dragon and the Boy
Dragons cross boundaries, cultures, and languages, taking the shape of different forms: long and snake-like, two-legged, four-legged, two sets of wings, or four even. For the most part, the wings resemble that of bats, but feathered or butterfly-type wings are featured in soft, sweeter tales. Beautiful or grotesque, evil or wise. Dragons are sought after to be destroyed, but in a more niche case, they are desired for wisdom.
The dragons I'm interested in are the demonic ones that stand in our way, representing chaos and destruction, whose only purpose is for you to pierce their scaly chest with a gleaming sword, rupturing the heart.
Those dragons, I despise.
Are we all born with a dragon? Maybe you could tame them. Some dragons would be docile and easy to control. Others will consume you the moment you're born. Some, like mine, wait in the shadows, entertaining me with conversations as I grew up, biding its time to consume.
The armory stands empty. I flip open a chest, hoping there's the armor to help in my quest. Will it be enough? These are called Pauldrons. The leather buckle is fastened tight across my chest. Everything's exposed, but there's little choice. A cabinet holds only a tiny, rusted bastard sword. It wobbles at the hilt, the blade barely attached. Well, it'll do.
The travel to my Dragon's lair is pretty close. Not like it used to be. It would take about a fortnight to reach him, and I would be treated with sweets, song, and laughter.
Now, the lair is ahead, a minute's journey greeted with fire, brimstone, and hatred, the hatred choking the air.
The lair rests at the bottom of a tremendous mountain, its peak breaking the clouds. The wind slaps my face in periodic timing. Odd. Then it occurs to me it's not the wind but the Dragon's breath.
"Dragon!" My wobbly sword is unsheathed.
A deep rumbling erupts from the lair.
"Is it time already, boy?"
A large, horned, devilish face slinks out from the darkness, sneering a toothy grin. I step back, shocked, as he's bloated and fat with my fears and insecurities.
"I am no longer a boy." I stand firm, pressing my feet into the ground, ready to attack.
"Oh, but you are!' He shoots a fire bolt from his snout, flames erupting before me. In flames, a mirror sits. I peer into the glass, and my reflection peers back, a boy of ten.
"I no longer live looking behind me. I'm at peace. But you! I am at war, Dragon; you stand in my way!"
His wide wing span is an understatement as he rears back, revealing a scaling hide. "You've tried before and failed. What makes you think you'll defeat me this time, boy?"
Shoulders straight. Brows furrowed. Breathing calm. I know my odds, but it doesn't matter anymore. Confidence explodes from deep within. "Because, you slimy Dragon, I'm about tired of failing."
As I charge, a scream of vigor erupts from my throat, and the rusty sword points toward my enemy.
