You’ve been told all your life you mustn’t visit the Mountain Cave, for that’s where the Dragon dwells. You mustn’t venture towards its silver doors and jade knockers, because, well, you just mustn’t.
But you’ve always been an unruly child, haven’t you?
So you set off, like a proper Hero should, with a polished sheath at your hip and a rose in your free hand (surely you’ll meet princesses along the way). You decide that first, you must visit the nearby village, because that’s where you’ll find your sidekick, of course. No, you correct yourself as you skip over streams and along the flat tops of lilies, that’s where you’ll find a friend. A loyal companion to relieve the pressure of this journey, to cheer you up when you feel like you just can’t be the hero anymore.
You start in the alleys of the village, because surely you’ll find someone who needs your help. But you find no one. You ignore the path of golden coins leading into the darkness because a Hero ought to know better than to succumb to greed. You try the taverns next. There’ll be a good, old-fashioned bar fight, and you’ll help the tired boy who looks like he’s losing. But they turn you away at the door, saying that if you wanted sweet milk and spiced honey, you should’ve stayed at home. You sneer at them, hide the hurt and fear you feel in the pit of your stomach, and be on your way. You don’t need a sidekick (friend) anyways.
You decide to go through the woods next, because you absolutely must meet a wicked witch there. You see an old women and run at her, sword thrust forward. When the dull blade scrapes through her spine, she turns and you see she’s just been harvesting blackberries. You back away from the fruit that’s soaking in the red you’ve just spilled, and run through the trees, telling yourself through your tears that you’re not afraid, you’re not upset, and you don’t regret anything.
Yet.
You give up on the rest of the story and skip right to the end, because you’ve heard it a thousand times anyways. You arrive at the door and shove it open, no longer caring that maybe you should’ve paused before you entered, like all the good Heroes do. You march through the halls, gleaming with forgotten jewels, just like the legends promised. You see the intricately carved doorway and grin, running towards it.
You’ve done it! You made it! You’re going to fight the Dragon and you’re going to win and this will all be worth it.
You stop. Because past the hallway, there are just two things.
1) A skeleton, bones crusted over with dust. In one hand, he holds a sword. It’s sharper than yours, but the sheath is nowhere near as shiny. In the other hand, he clutches a rose. Its petals are dry and cracked, but nothing’s disturbed them, so they still cling to their powdered heart.
2) A mirror, gilded edges somehow still gleaming, though you can tell it’s ancient.
You circle the room because you’ve missed something, there’s something else here, there has to be. Finally, you stop and brush your knuckles along the man’s rose. It dissolves, as does he. In a way, so do you. You sink down to where he had been and stare into the mirror.
You see the Dragon. With its bloody red eyes from crying so hard. With its hardened scales from telling itself that it’s still doing everything right. With its fiery breath from burning the pages of its own story.
As you walked away from home, you might’ve heard your mother call your name, beckoning you back home to grab a family heirloom for good luck. But you didn’t. As you snorted and passed those silver coins painted gold, you might’ve followed them to find a starving boy who certainly could’ve used your help. But you didn’t. As you ran from the body of the innocent you just murdered, you might’ve found her cottage, told her daughter the truth, and held her while she cried sour tears like blackberry juice. But you didn’t.
So instead, you sit. You wait.
You are a Dragon.
You’ve always been one, my dear.