"A Dragon's Perspective" by Seth Bohn
Are mistakes made in ignorance forgivable, even in matters of life or death?
Story Summary: A renowned dragon slayer agrees to a conversation with the enemy, before they engage in mortal combat. (Scroll Down to Read)
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A Dragon’s Perspective by Seth Bohn
There once lived a dragon named Deathwing.
Well, at least that’s what they called him. Deathwing was growing old, far too old for his liking. The joints of his claws ached and groaned under his ever-growing weight and his scales were beginning to lose their amber luster. As one of the most ancient and experienced of the dragons, Deathwing pioneered the ability to shape-shift and masquerade in the form of humans for those dragons who wished to learn. Thus, Deathwing spent much of his time as a spindly old man. Even with the visible age in his human form, he much preferred the lightness and dexterity afforded to him by his newly opposable thumbs and nimble hands.
For hundreds of years, Deathwing traveled all the world as this small, wispy-haired man. He found his new form extraordinarily conducive to hobbies and trades. Knitting was what inspired awe and passion in Deathwing, for creation with such intense beauty at such a small scale was previously an unknowable thing to him. Centuries of knitting and embroidery created a master out of him. His complex and awe-inspiring creations catapulted him to the status of one of the most coveted tradesmen in the known world. Deathwing learned of all the most major markets and received offers of exorbitant commissions, secretly traveling close to them in the form of a dragon and appearing to the humans as the man who called himself “Laurence the Weaver.” He’d not missed a single opportunity to create and sell in centuries, on account of his shape-shifting, and been paid a king’s ransom in return.
His cave was alight from the glimmer of a thousand jewels shimmering from the first morning sun. A thick steam rose from the dragon’s gaping nostrils, as steady streams of clouds drifted to the top of the cavern. Beneath the massive amalgamation of scales lay a treasure worthy of only the most opulent of rulers. Rubies, diamonds, and gold pieces from every era of the last millennium adorned the walls and floors of the dragon’s home.
His eyes, brighter than any of the gemstones he hoarded in this cave of his, fluttered awake and fixated their piercing gaze on the cave’s entrance. He felt it. What was once a minuscule vibration in the mountain’s stone had turned to a steady shake only perceptible to those in-tune with the Earth’s most silent songs. The approach of a human was inevitable. He let out a deep grunt and snaked his bronze tail out from a massive deposit of gold coins behind him. The dragon curled himself into a ball, now a massive egg lying dormant in the remaining darkness, and contemplated. He would not be the first dragon to face this human.
Bryngel the Healer was a dragon of nine hundred years, a studious and empathetic spirit that appeared to most as a fragile woman capable of no harm. Every major medical and apothecary advancement of the last century could be traced almost solely back to her. Aside from her retreat atop a magnificent set of falls, she resided in war-torn cities wrought with desperation and need. She was an angel to those who could ill-afford not having one. Yet, when she donned her sapphire scales to retreat home, she was labeled a demon. Only a fortnight had passed since Bryngel’s last retreat to her vast waterfalls before the stories began circulating. A triumphant knight marched to her home and slayed her by shearing off her scales with his blade. Deathwing heard from others that he sold her scales, magnificent remnants of a people and age past, to secure arms and equipment for killing more of his kind. It was that very stink of murder that Deathwing smelled approaching his cave.
The knight had done it to many more. Deathwing’s best friend of almost half a thousand years, a black dragon who shifted to a scientist by the name Azorus, fell victim to the knight. Deathwing remembered back on him fondly, an inquisitive mind who had just discovered a spark of potential he dubbed “electricity.” Azorus studied it with an intense fervor, as a few of the most powerful dragons blew that lighting-like substance instead of fire. Deathwing knew the potential of this study and wept tears like diamonds when the news circulated to his humble cave. He was more than a mind to Deathwing. Azorus was family.
More followed. A pair of dragon mates, each doubling as the leaders of an uprising against a ruinous monarch, were murdered in cold blood during the night. Yeng the Poet, another close friend to Deathwing, fell as well. It was after this most recent string of dragon murders that the knight’s name finally encroached upon Deathwing’s lips: Sir Timult. He was a legend of past conquests and savior to many an innocent, yet he sought to wreak havoc upon Deathwing’s people. Sir Timult placed his honor at stake and swore a pledge to destroy as many dragons as he could find. And so, he did.
Deathwing sealed his serpent eyes shut. The vibrations in the earth which signaled Timult’s coming suddenly ceased. He knew this was his last moment of peace, a fleeting minute of respite before the coming storm. To kill a single dragon was a feat that made one a hero amongst men. However, it was an entirely different thing to systematically hunt and destroy the oldest and most powerful of a race. It seemed to Deathwing that Sir Timult was becoming a living legend.
Yet there he was.
A single peek from between resting eyelids was enough to reveal the man. Sir Timult stood at the mouth of the cave not one hundred feet from Deathwing. Carrying nothing but a single broadsword in his two hands, he approached. Deathwing found it vile that the man held a triumphant air about him even as he trespassed, a victorious aura as dreadful as his actions. Still a blur for the dragon’s long-aged eyes, Sir Timult pressed onwards and halted only a short distance from Deathwing’s head.
Though he’d heard all the tales about Sir Timult, it took every bit of Deathwing’s being not to recoil in revolt at the now clear sight. There Timult stood, a man as tall as an infant tree and as wide as an ancient one, adorned from head to toe in a thick armor of gleaming dragon scales. Their deep blue writhed as he moved, casting a pale eminence all about him. Deathwing thought he looked a walking stream of glacier water carving his way through the mountainside. It was a primal beauty reserved for only the greatest beings of the world. He knew that beauty and had seen it before. Once it belonged to Bryngel. The thought of this man stealing her mystical brilliance for his own after violently slaughtering her made him ill. The fact that Timult apparently sold off most of them made him feel even worse.
Atop his head sat a sturdy helm of obsidian black with jagged wings jutting out from both sides. A visor shielded his face from Deathwing’s sight. Sturdy chain connected the base of his helm to the scale armor below. Even the steel boots the knight wore had wings that leapt out towards the top of his greaves. Sir Timult was the spitting image of an impostor. Dragon scales guarding his chest, immobile wings fixed in place and a sword sharpened out of dragon bones themselves made him a mockery of a dragon.
Timult placed the sharp end of his blade into the soft dirt and raised his visor. An overflowing mahogany mustache spilled out from beneath the metal veil and covered nearly all his nose and lip. He had a broad, level chin that spoke of both age and power. His piercing eyes shone the same color as the scales across his chest and his arched eyebrows were nearly as dense as the hair on his lip.
“Dragon!” His voice was deep and full with a sand-like scratch on the end of his words. “I am Sir Timult, oathbound and compelled by the wager on my honor to hunt you. I have no quarrel with you, but with your kind. Many innocents have been devoured in the flames of your people, turned to morsels by lashing tongues and gnashing teeth. I have resolved to put an end to this madness.” He swung his blade up in a complex flourish and gripped it with both hands. “To be a dragon is to kill.”
As soon as he bit off the last syllable of his remark, Sir Timult thrust his head upward. The visor slipped back down across his eyes and he began his charge. His armor was silent as he moved, the exquisite construction of the scales and chain beneath it oscillating flawlessly with his motion. Deathwing sought no one’s destruction and made no attempt at fire. Instead, he watched and waited as the charging Timult closed the short gap that separated them. Then, he spoke.
“Then what is it to be human if not the same?”
“Then what is it to be human if not the same?”
The sound of heavy greaves clanking and boots drifting to a halt filled the thick cavern air. Sir Timult anchored himself in place and raised his visor with one hand. A priceless expression of confusion and bewilderment was plastered onto his face.
“The beast can talk?” It was a question not poised at anyone or anything. Rather, it seemed to be a confirmation of a dreadful fact that Timult had only just learned.
“Indeed,” countered Deathwing. “I asked you a question.”
Sir Timult’s once proud and resolute voice dropped to a nervous shake. “And what would that be?”
“If being a dragon is to kill, what is it to be human if not the same?”
Composure quickly reclaimed Timult’s face. One of his hands stayed clutching at the grip of his sword while the fingers of the other twisted the coarse hair at one end of his lip. Deathwing thought he heard a disgruntled, contemplative moan resonate from the man’s throat. Sir Timult tilted his head to one side and ran the length of where his chin was, would the bottom of his helm not be blocking it, between his thumb and index finger. They met at the base of his chin and he answered.
“To be a human is to sacrifice. It is to weigh nobility with malevolence, to balance vengeance and justice. You are right, creature, for some humans kill. I am not so innocent there. However, many humans live an entire life putting nothing to a sword. Therefore, to be a human does not make one a killer.”
“Would you extend that courtesy to my kind, then?” Deathwing’s retort was rapid, with a careful edge of irony in his tone that caused Sir Timult to stir again.
“Your words are as dangerous as your teeth, Deathwing!” Sir Timult spit the dragon’s human-given name with a bitterness that disappointed the beast. He admired the man’s stubbornness, for he knew it was born of passion and an aspiration to honor. Neither of those concepts were new to Deathwing. He coveted them, as well.
“You are bound by honor, knight, and I wish to invoke that honor. Sit and speak with me.” Deathwing took a lighter and more inquisitive tone in the best manner a dragon could attempt with speech. Though dictation was a skill that dragons possessed in their true form, the tongues of humankind were still distinctly alien. Vowels of human creation spoken by dragons were usually too short and awkward on the ear. Lines created by the greatest of poets to be uttered with immaculate grace would come out a garbled mess. A dragon’s mouth was not designed for the complexities of language, and it showed.
“Why do we not just fight? You know my intent. My purpose has been spread to every corner of the world. Why should I wait when I know my death may be approaching? I see your age and experience, and while others would assign that to your detriment, I know otherwise. This fight will be bloody and brutal.”
“Because I do not wish to fight. I will not raise a single claw against you. I’ll breathe no fire nor inflict injury upon you, even if you decide to kill me. I have been gifted a long life of plenty and luxury. I am content with whatever decision you make, sir knight.”
“And what guarantee do I have of that, dragon?”
“My honor.”
The words seemed to shake and disturb Sir Timult. He took a long look at the dragon and examined the vast treasures buried behind and amongst it. “I know honor as well as any other,” he said. “Very well. We shall speak.”
Deathwing whipped his tail out of a pile of gold stacked almost to the cave’s ceiling. Bits of the pile spouted up like a volcano spitting lava and came crashing down all-around Sir Timult. The dragon’s barbed tail slithered to the knight and came to a stop a single pace away from him. One of the barbs, a dense spike Timult knew to be stronger than any material known to man, was erected upright on the top side of the broad part of Deathwing’s tail. Between the relatively flat surface of the tail and the smooth appearance of the barb, Sir Timult thought it reassembled a seat.
“Sit.”
It sounded more of a demand than a request. Sir Timult, his suspicions confirmed about the gesture, obliged. At first, he sat awkwardly, his metal boots slipping on the scales and the bulk of his gear throwing him off balance. Timult looked like he was about to speak before Deathwing gave him a small nod, or at least that’s what Timult thought a dragon’s snout bobbing signaled. Without asking any further questions of the dragon, Sir Timult dropped his helm, placed his sword alongside it, shed his heavy armor of scales and climbed back up. It was easy this time. Wearing only a light tunic with chain in his vulnerable spots and thick wool pants, Sir Timult now sat with his back rested against one of the great barbs. Deathwing thought he appeared comfortable at last.
“If you wish to speak, dragon,” Sir Timult said, his arms folded across his chest, “it would be polite for you to begin.”
“As you wish. Why do you crave my death?”
Sir Timult let out a frustrated sigh. “I believe I’ve already told you of this.”
“You’ve told me why you hunt my kind. I’m posing to you a different question. Why do you hunt me?”
Deathwing’s question created a long silence. Thought was wrought across the face of Timult, who appeared to come up with an answer before having it visibly slip away. He worked his fingers in the manner of one who was flustered and raised one of them to Deathwing. “I do not know you, dragon, yet I hunt you because you are such: a dragon.”
“And what have I done to deserve such a fate? What atrocities have I committed to demand of your honor that you slay me?”
“I assume every dragon has murdered humans. All the dragons I’ve known, at least.”
“That is until now, it seems.” Deathwing contorted his body while keeping his tail fixed in its spot and laid his head next to the sitting Sir Timult. Their eyes met and a long moment passed, neither backing down from the stare. Timult’s eyes grew weary and the corners of his mouth drooped. An understanding seemed to wash over his tired features.
“But I know of dragons who have killed many humans. Some have even committed the unspeakable atrocities which have set me down this path.”
“Some have, yes.” Deathwing muted his voice to a hush, a growl that was oddly indiscernible from a gruff human voice. “I too know of many more humans that have committed far greater sins. You yourself have fought valiantly against them. When you do so, do you punish the offender or the entire people?”
“The offender and those who embrace their malice. Honor demands it.”
“The offender and those who embrace their malice. Honor demands it.”
“You and I see things the same. You should know, then, that myself and many others like me have never touched a human or their possessions. Just as many of us denounce those who inflict pain upon your people and seek justice on your behalf. We are bound to the same path, yet you march into this cave with a sword on your shoulder and death in your heart. To what end, Sir Timult?”
“Only your death, though it doesn’t seem that would bring about any justice. It wouldn’t be honorable. In fact, if what you say is true, I’d call it murder.” He paused for a moment to wet his lips with his tongue. “But you are the first of your kind that I’ve encountered to be like this.”
Deathwing laughed, a painful chuckle that projected sadness, not amusement. “Did you even ask them before you charged at them with a sword in your hand? Did you ask them before you sliced them from ear-to-ear while they slept?”
“How was I to know that I could even converse with them? You must understand dragons are not known to speak.”
“Oh, but we are.” The frustration in Deathwing’s voice was growing, the volume rising in a steady crescendo. “We speak to you every day. We fight beside you, drink alongside you, and some of us even love some of you.”
“What does that even mean, dragon? You don’t honestly believe that I would accept that dragons would marry humans. It’s absurd. Within your own kind, I suppose it is possible. I didn’t even know you could speak before today; thus, I must admit to not knowing much about your traditions. But with humans? It’s inconceivable.”
“But would it be so incomprehensible if we appeared human?”
“Pardon?” Sir Timult’s right eyebrow curled down almost to the bridge of his nose. His mouth was agape, his cracked lips open enough to reveal large teeth set in an even larger mouth. Deathwing thought it was the same expression worn by a priest overhearing words of blasphemy. It was amusing to Deathwing to trust the knight with this secret, yet he also knew it was necessary for him to know. Underneath all that false honor and misguided hatred, Deathwing saw a good heart in a capable knight. Sir Timult was the kind of person who would see his sins and repent, bringing back with him news about dragons that would turn humankind’s hatred of them into a ubiquitous curiosity. This could be a chance for peace.
“Almost a millennium ago, my people learned of our greatest gift. No doubt humans would claim flight or flame as the most enviable of our traits, though we have long held this ultimate ability close to our chests.” Deathwing paused and met Timult’s eyes, making sure that the knight could see both the complete honesty of this truth and the unquantifiable amount of trust Deathwing was placing in him.
Deathwing continued. “Many of us dragons can appear as humans.”
Sir Timult shifted in place and scratched the side of his head buried beneath a tuft of dirty blonde hair. He didn’t appear shaken as Deathwing had anticipated. Instead, he simply stared off towards the mountains outside. Deathwing paid a haphazard glance towards the opening of the cave, but nothing was there. Timult was deep in contemplation. It seemed Timult had forgotten all the words of the dragon’s original question until a single query of his own quietly rolled off his tongue.
“Is this something that happens often?”
“Yes.” Deathwing had committed to telling him not just what he needed to know, but what he should know, as well. A special trust had been placed in the knight and Deathwing would not hold back any truth from him.
“Are there any of you that I would know?”
“Perhaps you may know of Bryngel?”
The response was immediate, his eyes lighting up like freshly stoked embers. “Of course I know her, dragon. Everyone I’ve served with in war has been healed by her or something of her design. She hasn’t been seen in a good while now. Do you know where she is?”
