By Harlowe Pilgrim
It is with heavy heart that I tell my
tale, for it be a sad one, the heart and the tale both. And the tale
be a dragon tale, one recalling a sad, sad state of dragon affairs.
Live it with me, a time upon a once.
You … are walking your dragon. They
need that every now and then, as otherwise there is nothing more
irascible. So you are walking him … just walking him.
He’s always been aggressive toward
strangers, for as long as he’s been yours. And he’s been yours
from just a hatchling—a
cute and scaly one, at that.
Over the years have you dealt with his
hostile manner, some times better than others, going over and beyond
to keep him contained, restrained, and otherwise sequestered away in
your home and out of trouble.
And at home, well what of that? As
member of the family, that dragon is loved just as much as … as
much as strangers best be wary of him. Likewise, with you and yours,
his demeanor is charming, near as
docile and affectionate as a cuddly kitten. As long as you keep him
calm.
And one of the best ways to keep your
dragon calm is … to exercise him. And one of the best forms of
exercise for a spunky old dragon (save for razing villages by the
fire of his dragon’s breath, which ought be discouraged) is
… simply … to take him out for walks.
On such a walk is where you find
yourself now.
With regard to dragon-walking, the less
populated the route, the better. Because, as likely you recall, your
dragon is not a people-dragon. Which is why you keep him
leashed at all times.
As long as he is on that leash, you
have always been able to control him, well enough. Which is to say,
you have kept him from being too awfully bad.
And so, you are walking, and your
dragon is walking with you, on his leash—that
leash being actually quite a heavy chain (it having grown heavier
over the years along with his dragon-power).
The road is dirt, isolated and
essentially deserted. In other words, perfect.
Until there appears, from the woods at
the roadside … another dragon. Another dragon much smaller and
younger than yours.
Someone else’s pet dragon, by the
looks. But at the moment, this little guy is running free, with no
master to be seen.
And he’s coming your way.
You are on guard, but there’s no need
to panic. Your hands have tight hold of the chain restraining yours,
and … well, they are likely to investigate each other, and that
will be it. A non-event.
Likely.
The other dragon is almost to you.
He’s even littler than you thought.
Your guy growls down low a bit, but
there’s nothing so unusual about that—it’s
how he says hello.
There is even slack in his chain, for
what it is worth.
You’re glad he’s so relaxed.
The other dragon approaches, in rather
an unassuming manner.
Most beasts seem to have a natural
apprehension of each other, or so you thought. But not in this case.
And in the split second it takes for a
heart to beat, your dragon reacts.
He throws a great belch of flame, and
lunges latching his fearsome, knife-toothed jaw onto a foreleg of the
lesser creature, who screams an awful dragon scream and scrambles to
escape your aggressor's impossible grip.
With proximate the strength of a plow
ox, you pull back on his chain, but his viciousness holds tight.
Whenever you succeed in dragging him back, he only drags his prey
along with him.
Dragon’s blood has begun to flow,
splashing upon the embattled creatures, yourself, and the wounded,
claw-dug ground.
Their terrible howls and snarls have
attracted attention, and you find yourself surrounded by onlookers.
Even in the middle of nowhere, a horror
show attracts a crowd.
Feverishly now, you jerk back on the
chain, but to no avail.
You push him with your foot as you pull
again. Anything to break them up … to distract him. Push, pull,
pray … and repeat.
The sound is God-awful.
Then … miraculously … your dragon
goes for a better bite. And in the brief window it affords, you’re
able to wrench him away from his victim.
Your monster snarls after him as
whimpering, he limps away.
The altercation was brief in terms of
elapsed time, yet a perpetuity the way you experienced it.
And by the looks of the onlookers, the
world is a different place now than it was before.
You can see it in their eyes, before
all the blood has even hit the earth.
That indeed, all the blood has not hit
the earth.
Meanwhile, your heart still races, and
your hands ache from fighting to grip on your dragon’s chain.
This cannot stand. It must not, and
will not, be allowed to stand.
But your dragon is as oblivious as
… as his days are now numbered. His bloody mouth is almost
a smile … if dragons did smile, which dragons do not.
In you, the realization is grim and
sickening.
The poor wounded dragon’s owners
emerge and take custody of their ailing little beast. And
they wax apologetic, of all things.
They
must not have seen.
“Not
at all.” You usher your dragon from the scene. “Not at all.”
“Was
he injured?” they ask of him, your dragon fighting machine.
“Not
at all … not at all.”
Back
at home, your dragon is all pet once more.
But
still, you are wary, and yours are wary. The day’s unfortunate
incident was an escalation. It marked a turning point.
You
were unable to contain him. You were unable to control him.
That
knowledge sets upon your chest like a millstone.
Your
mind and stomach churn over the possibility—nay
the likelihood, of a reoccurrence.
Or
… of a worse occurrence.
The
reality strikes you cold as the water with which you wash the blood
from your wonderful, horrible friend.
You
have to put the dragon down.
The
thought sends shudders as he cozies up to you with that friendly
gleam in his eyes.
He
loves you.
You
love him. This side of him.
Where
was that gleam when the dragon roared?
You
gather yours and explain what what must be.
Tears
flow and heads nod in sad understanding, and acceptance is gained
within warm hugs.
When?
When will it be done?
Soon
… the sooner the better. For safety’s sake. But not today.
The
emotions are overwhelming as they are.
Your
dragon snores the night away on the floor huddled next to the
children, still their best friend and protector.
Yet
the dwindling sands pour from his hourglass whether he’s cognizant
of it or not.
Little
rest do you enjoy, the day’s first light finding your eyes open and
awake.
Does
it have to be the day, today? It does. Otherwise would be risking
the next terrible event.
The
household rises at the typical time, true to routine, while
the mood is anything but.
Gloomy
are all, and grim … all except your dragon, who is strikingly …
chipper … if such
label be properly affixed a fire-breathing beast. Sweetly clueless
even, the blood and noise of yesterday relegated ancient history in
his dragon mind, if even the notion exists anywhere within.
But
absent your mind, it for certain is not. The yester day’s events …
today’s sad duty … they devastate like a dragon bite.
Breakfast,
along with the rest, is hard to swallow.
For
you, certainly. But not for the dragon, who manages to snatch up a
basket of food from your table—an
act that, although normally strictly verboten … on this day, you
let it go.
Which
should have raised his suspicions and would have, if not for his
focus on the stolen snack.
The
meal concludes and you prompt the family.
It
is time.
Tears
flow and flow some more as they lavish affection upon their poor
damned pet, and he revels too much in the lavishment.
Is
that pain in your chest, your heart breaking?
It
continues to break, or at least certainly to bleed, as you escort him
from home, steering down the dirt path and onto the quiet uncobbled
road, as if for a walk taken so many before. As if it were the world
of the day before.
Your
long blade, sheathed in its scabbard, weighs heavy on your hip and
upon your soul.
The
roadside passes as you pass it by, the indistinct muddle of the
setting of a dream. And not a very good dream, at that.
A
regrettable a chore it seems, to be the one to whom it falls to do
what must be done.
Your
walk ends off the road in a forest clearing. He sits up and looks up
at you, expectantly. You often play in this spot.
There
is love in his dragon eyes.
What
pain you feel!
Stroking
his back, you set him at ease. He groans and rolls over so you can
rub his belly, which you do.
He
loves that on his underside. His soft, vulnerable underside.
Relaxation
overtakes him, and his eyes close.
You
continue the massage with the one hand, as you—silently,
painstakingly—draw your
sword.
The
dragon begins to snore.
He’s
asleep.
Blink
away the tears, they are blurring your vision.
Let
him sleep.
You
stop rubbing his belly, and stand upright, grasping the weapon’s
hilt in both hands. Blade down.
One
deep breath.
And
with all you can muster, you plunge the sword down into his chest.
Your
cold steel finds dragon heart.
He
never shudders or opens his eyes, only stops snoring.
His
breath is gone, his spark departed. Thy friend, thy burden … thine
no more.
You
collapse at his side.
And
that is how you put the dragon down.
A
true story, you ask? More true than not, my friend. Leash thy
dragons close.
The
End
###
Copyright 2015 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC
