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
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-Harlowe Pilgrim
Copyright 2015 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC
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