Free Write, 09/09/15
Prompt: Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story).
Image via Flickr by Bill Gracey
Once there was a story about a boy (but this is not that story). This is a story about a dragon, who merely wanted to be a boy, which is strange, because, usually, when given the option, I think most people would choose to be the dragon. But still, it’s not my story, it’s his.
Brindlestone was a young dragon, and all alone in the world. His parents had been slain by mighty adventurers who carved up their bodies for armor and weapons, and stole his siblings to raise as their own. At least, that’s what Brindlestone told himself.
You see, Brindlestone never knew his parents. When he hatched in a warm cavern inside the lip of a valcano, it was empty. No parents, no friends, no horde of gold, nothing. At first, Brindlestone didn’t know what to make of this. He looked around the cavern, warmly lit by glowing magma, and was very confused.
Wasn’t there supposed to be more than this?
His legs were a little unsteady at first and his wings were covered in a thick, sticky, slime, but dragon babies are somewhat more developed at birth than human offspring, and soon Brindlestone was walking well. He explored the the cavern. Swimming through great underground lakes, mirror bright and smooth as glass. He wove through forests of great stalagmites and stalactites, which sparkled and shone with reflected light. Until finally, at the very back of the cavern, he came to a stout wooden door.
Through this door was a great library with shelves upon shelves of thick, leather bound books. Now, Brindlestone couldn’t read, but many of these books were illuminated with bright, clear illustrations that showed what they were about. They were about the death of the dragons.
He learned that beings that looked very much like he did, had been fear and hunted throughout the land. Their bodies used to forge the weapons that would destroy their kind, and he learned of Human kind, the great destroyers.
Yet, instead of hating these mysterious beings. This hours old creature, made from magic and mystery, felt compassion for the human race and even a twinge of envy. He looked at the illustrations of families, and then of homes being burned by terrifying black shadows in the sky, and he something deep within him stirred. The sorrow of the lost and the lonely.
The door creaked open and Brindlestone whirled around.
There, in the doorway, stood on old, bent man with a white beard so long it tucked into his belt and a pointed blue hat. “Don’t worry, I won’t harm you my son.”
