Sir Lancelot, he called himself. Knight come to slay dragons. Such a cliché. He tiptoed into my cave, quietly walking across the multiple turns. At least he thought he was quiet. But you don’t underestimate a dragon. Especially not in his own lair. His armour clanged loudly in the enclosed space, the noise bouncing off the stone walls.
I waited patiently, almost forgetting my curse. He peeked around a corner right in front of me, possibly to get an estimate of his enemy. And my curse chose to manifest itself at that very time. The next second, as he charged on me, he saw not a massive red dragon, only a small human, clothed in bare rags, struggling to stand.
He lowered his sword, his eyes full of bewilderment, his body conveying total confusion.
“Who are you?” he asked, his deep voice booming across the cave.
I smiled internally, but only let a tear slip in my physical manifestation.
“I- I’m the real person behind the dragon — “ I said, my voice soft and quiet, a contrast from the usual deep boom of my roar.
He raised his sword again.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“The dragon takes me. Every day, in the morning, he inhabits my body, and…and…”
“It’s fine,” the hero said.
Mistake 1, I thought.
“Who are you? What is your name?”
Baleorn, the destroyer of worlds.
“I- I don’t remember,” I said.
“Where is the dragon now?” he asked.
“He…he disappears every evening. He only comes back in the morning. It’s a curse he- I- recieved.”
He gave me a concerned look.
Mistake 2.
“We can leave,” he said. “Go outside. We will find someone to help you.”
Mistake 3.
“I- what if he… he comes back…?” I say, my voice halting.
“I’ll take care of him then,” he says, his voice soothing, at an odd contrast to his outfit.
I walk out, careful to stumble, walk haltingly, but I don’t fall. If there’s one thing being immortal grants you, it’s excellent balance.
As I pretend to be fragile, my memory goes back.
“You have disgraced all dragons, Baleorn,” the golden dragon shouted. “You shall live with this blot on your life forever.”
“That’s not enough,” a white said. “There should be more punishment for what he has done.”
“What does a dragon prize most?” a wise old brass asked.
“His gold.”
“Treasure.”
“His lair.”
“Fresh lambs.”
“His fire.”
The leader of our clan moved to the forward, an ancient copper.
“What does an immortal prize most?” he said.
Everyone quieted.
“His life.” the brass said.
“So what? We kill him?” the white said arrogantly.
“No,” the brass whispered. “We make him fear.”
“Please,” I beg. “At least give me a way to escape this curse.”
The golden laughed. “The only way you get to do that is if a knight gives you his word that he’ll help you.”
At this, everyone laughed.
Fire blazed in my eyes.
“Sir…sir,” I say,”Will you help me?”
“Of course,” he said. “I swear by my sword.”
Heroes’ main weakness, I thought. They forgive.
I let out a sudden laugh and he recoiled.
“Thank you, dear Knight,” I say, my voice now full of determination.
“Thank you, indeed.”
