Dragonfly

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “being a dragon would be so awesome” or maybe “if I was a dragon I wouldn’t be scared of anything”. Well, you’re wrong. And I don’t appreciate the constant pressure to be awesome and fearless. Have you ever actually met a dragon? We aren’t invincible you know. We aren’t even that big! I mean sure, by human standards we’re big. But you know what else is big? Cows! Now there’s a sturdy beast! That’s something that really isn’t talked about enough. City folk think they’re these placid, gentle creatures but I dare you to say that while face to face with one.

In my youth I was tasked with herding cattle. It was alright when I could do it from the sky, but one summer I had a sprained wing and… well I won’t bore you with the story but let’s just say that it’s six decades later and I’m still having nightmares about the damned creatures. Stubborn as hell, the lot of them! And despite whatever you might have heard to the contrary I can assure you they do not tip over when startled! Anyway, this isn’t about the stampede incident. This is about the child. Because I think maybe I need to set the record straight.

Three weeks ago, I was patrolling the forests that form the boarder between your human farmlands and the east Mountains. On foot. Now if that seems like a fruitless task, it’s because it is. I’m practically two centuries old and my brother still thinks he needs to send me on fool’s errand after fool’s errand to keep me out of trouble! He would argue (as in fact, he has) that the tale I’m about to recount proves him right, but that’s only because he’s too bloody minded to see that trouble found me! As usual.

So, I’m patrolling the forest on foot when I hear something. At least, I think I hear something. I stop after every dozen or so trees that I pass, try to identify the sound, but it’s so faint that I can’t even decide which direction it’s coming from. “You’re just imagining things again” I hear my fathers tired voice in my mind. He’d long since passed into the forever lands, but he’d said it so many times that the echos still rang loud and clear through my mind on a regular basis. Somehow it had never seemed to matter much to anyone that my fears were proved right more often than not. “Well if you go about predicting that some unknown danger is looming at some unknown distance, of course you’re going to be right some times! You’re as bad as aunt Adra predicting the rain!” Daegar, my brother, always used aunt Adra to signify the height of folly. But she was the only one who’d ever understood. “Just because no one believes you, doesn’t mean you’re wrong. You need to learn to trust your inner voice.” she would say to me, when the others were out of earshot.

Unfortunately, my inner voice was forever competing with the echos of near everyone I’d ever met. So as I trudged on through the dense forest, I repeated the phrases my mentors had taught me throughout my first century and a half.

“The world is full of sounds. Not all of them are for me.”

“Just because something has my attention, doesn’t mean it ought to”

“Only brave dragons should trust their gut, anxious dragons must trust their mind.”

That last one had always perplexed me. I’d tried explaining that my head was usually in complete agreement with my gut, but my mentor at the time had been adamant that I must just not be listening to it properly, just as I wasn’t listening to him properly. He then promptly exited his role as my mentor, much in the same way as the last six elders had. Mentorship is only supposed to last around three decades. And, short of death, a single elder is supposed to see you through the entire process. None had managed to put up with my anxious (or from their perspective, argumentative) questions long enough to even have the option of offering me the required apprenticeship. Eventually, the dragon council decided they’d rather rewrite the dragon code than continue bribing elders to take a grown dragon on as a mentee.

Anyway, the longer I walk, the more convinced I am that I’m being followed. I try to convince myself that it’s just an exceptionally dim witted deer - or at least one with a deathwish - but the sound lacks all semblance of rythm and grace. Eventually I spin around fast enough to catch my tail off guard… and narrowly avoid wiping them out with my actual tail. It’s probably gives some clue to the kind of life they have led up until this moment that they show a complete lack of fear or surprise at such a near miss.

Before me is a child. A human one. They run stumble forwards, gradually closing the gap between us, then stand about a treewidth away from me. It’s arms shoot up as though in surrender, but instead of fear, the eyes show an entirely different kind of pleading. Fingers curl and uncurl, knees bounce, and a pathetic yet insistent sound escapes its unmoving lips. This can’t be happening... I think to myself. But apparently it is. Not only is this small child not afraid of me, but it seems to want me to pick it up. I back away for its safety before turning and continuing my patrol, hoping it will get the message. It does not. After a few dozen trees I turn and wait for it to catch up. Fingers curl and uncurl, pathetic noises are made… so I oblige. I pick the child up by it’s filthy clothing, and place it in the nearest tree. I immediately have to catch it because it apparently didn’t think to hold on. I place it back on a branch, this time opting to keep hold of its’ clothing until it latches on to the tree. As I walk away, the thing starts howling. Admittedly I hadn’t exactly thought the whole tree thing through. I just wanted it to stop following me. I go back, lower the ball of now flailing limbs to the ground, and walk away again.

It follows me, obviously. I knew it would follow me. But I figure I can out pace it. I don’t try though. I refuse to let some infant human determine the speed at which I walk. It’s bad enough that my brother gets to determine where I walk. The child will no doubt get tired, or lose interest, or fall down some hole and it will be absolutely none of my business. Of course when the child does fall down some hole I decide that letting it make me listen to its cries is just as bad as letting it make me help it, so I help it. But I definitely do not encourage it to keep following me.

The angle of the ground gradually changes as I start up into the mountains. The child falls further and further behind as I get closer and closer to my destination. I can’t seem to stop myself straining to hear the haphazard footsteps, can’t help notice that their absence feels more a loss than a relief, but when my brother passes me outside the entrance to the caves, the relief is string indeed. As is the indignation.

“Find any way to screw up ground patrol?” he asks. I don’t answer. He doesn’t actually need an answer. He just wants to get under my scales, and I refuse to let him succeed. At least, I refuse to let him know he’s succeeded. I’m showered in dirt as he takes flight behind me. I turn to watch him. He might be a complete jerk but god he looks awesome in the sky. His jewel-like scales span the full spectrum from turquoise to tanzanite. He claims there’s over a hundred distinct hues but my eyesight has always been better and I swear there’s only like 62... unless his nether regions are a kaleidoscope or something. Anyway, whatever the number, it’s a hell of a lot more than my two toned shale colouring. Yet another way in which I let the family down simply by being me. Eventually I realize I’ve been staring off into the distance for an embarrassingly long time so I turn back towards the caves entrance. There, staring at me from the shade, is the child… somehow filthier than ever.

Look I’m not proud of what I did next. But I panicked, ok? Daegar hasn’t said how long he’d be gone, and anyone coming out of the catacombs would spot the child instantly. And no one was going to pause to hear my side of things. It would just be “Oh, look what the walking disappointment has done now!” and that would be that. From then on I’d be the idiot who brought a human child into the colony. So, seeing as I was going to be blamed the instant anyone saw it, I figure I should just… not let anyone see it. Simple, right? I tuck the child under my left wing, and head inside.

Two past mentors pass me within moments, but they pretend not to see me. Usually I’d be a little hurt, seeing as it was always so completely transparent in a tunnel this size. But today it was a blessing. Today, being ignored was a gift. By the time I get to my chamber, the child has managed to hook its finger under one of my scales and it was actually pretty painful. As far as I know humans can’t pry off our scales with their bare hands, but if it was possible I would no doubt be the dragon to discover it. I slowly extract the parasite from my side and set it down near the back wall. I know humans can’t breathe fire, but I’m pretty sure if they could, the expression on the child’s face would be exactly the look you’d see before flames erupted from their tiny mouths. I close the entrance to my chamber, light a fire as far away from the child as possible, place the remnants of this mornings’ meal in front of it, lie down to formulate a plan, and promptly fall asleep.

When I awake, my chamber is dark. As I move to stand, I feel something move under my right wing. Ah boulders, I think. For a blissful moment I had entirely forgotten the mess I was in. I relight the fire, careful not to disturb the child, and stare down at my unwanted companion. At first, I’m glad it’s asleep. That gives me time to plan. And then, inexplicably, I poke it. The child scrunches its’ eyes shut tighter before squirming itself awake. It reaches its hands up and just… stares at me. I hesitantly lower my head. The child places it’s hands between my nostrils and I suddenly feel incredible thirst overwhelm me. At first I assume it’s my own, but I’ve never felt thirst like this before. I stare cross eyed at the child, realizing with astonishment where the thirst is coming from. Somehow, this human infant is communicating with me. Ok, I think, as loudly as I can. We’ll go get water. What looks like gratitude flickers across its’ eyes.

I realize suddenly that I haven’t even attempted to tell the child my name, or learn its’ own. I also realize I’m surprisingly loath to admit that everyone calls me Dragonfly. Flyndor, I think loudly, hopeful the child can’t tell how foreign the name is in my own mind. Kai, the child returns. Maybe this might not be such a bad situation after all… I think hopefully. The child then proceeds to stick one hand up each of my nostrils, and I hastily revert to my prior assessment of the situation. Right, I think. Water first, then, we talk.