Dragonslayer

There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. Although it doesn’t seem to matter anymore, for not a thing can be done against it.

Years ago, before humans could speak, but after they could walk, the birth of The First Dragon shocked the creatures of Earth. In a fury of dust and brilliant light, an infant Dragon willed itself into existence.

I recall learning about The Dragons through tales of caution passed down within story books that save lives. As a child I was infatuated. Now, hearing The Origin leaves a bitter taste on my tongue and an intolerable ache in my chest.

I feel a pang, similar to the memory, centered above my ribs. Fear.

I try to think of a time when my naivete preceded rational thought and am sorely tempted to regress into that headspace. When Dragons were no more to me than tangible angels, exquisite beauties to be revered. Before I developed conclusions of my own.

Sharp vines whip at my cheeks in the unrelenting wind and I forge my path through dense shrubbery that feels infinite. I have been marching for so long.

It is rumored that Dragons are not indigenous to this galaxy, or even to this plane of existence. That they invade from an unknown entity somewhere far away among the stars. Powerful creatures. Beasts with intelligence beyond the comprehension of man. So naturally, when us humans discovered the magnitude of power that they hold, the revelation brought utter hysteria upon us.

I grimace at the memory of the story I was told as a child time after time, and my mind wanders for a moment. The hesitance allows just enough opportunity for a thin branch to slip free from my grasp and strike at my face. I can feel blood slip down from a thin gash and taste it in my mouth.

The psionic abilities these brutes possess proved to be quite astounding. How could a being possibly communicate through language without actually ever speaking? The telepathy drove the first mortals who experienced it mad with horror. Too extraordinary for such simple souls to grasp, it devastated their minds. How could such massive entities possibly vanish in one spot and reappear at another within moments on a whim? Human attempts at teleportation resulted in shredding the muscles and shattering the bones of our weak bodies. We cannot contend.

At the thought, I grit my teeth and falter forwards through the mud, tearing my clothes and catching my hair on thickets of brambles. More sticky red beads drip from what feels like a million shallow wounds picked into my skin.

With the power to create or destroy through sheer force of raw will, to manipulate the fibers of existence, matter, and time, our Dragons reign supreme. The closest evidential thing to omnipotence I, or anyone else has ever witnessed. It is simple to see that there now exists gods amongst men.

I lift a heavy leg and take another step. I am suffocating through the sharp foliage. Keep moving.

People had sobbed on all fours, groveling at the undeniable divinity just beyond touch. They became deranged, frenzied, and began to kill in the name of Dragons. Slaughtered themselves and their kin, wild animals, anything to appease the beasts. With this, The Dragons saw evil in the human heart and in turn, set the crazed masses ablaze without a thought other than of purification.

I waver as one of my boots sticks in the thick sludge. I huff and yank. With a jolt, it comes loose and I wobble backwards. My eyes narrow at the delay. Every second counts.

The Dragons took control not long after that in what they call The Shift. They might consider it a total seizure of power from man. We would relate it more accurately to our complete subjugation. To put it simply, no longer do the common people rule or even maintain general free will. Other than The Keepers that is. Men and women that have devoted themselves to dragons entirely.

Trudging on, I feel my bitterness in my heart as I reminisce. If not for the purpose of servitude, we might have already been just another blip in the timeline of Earth's history. Lucky for us that Dragons are notoriously lazy, appointing any humans that remained after the culling as their personal caretakers.

I stumble through a particularly thick wall of thorns and fall into a clearing on my knees with a grunt.

However, there exists a rebellion. An underground force of finite humans. Soldiers, raised from childhood to defend mankind from extinction. We turned on the Dragons. But only some of us, and only centuries later. Before that, we had collectively feigned living in harmony with each other. So no one really quite knows how or when they came about- who sparked the blaze of an uprising- but they certainly did. With newfound infuriation and in preparation to die in battle, The Slayers appointed themselves with ferocity, enemies of Dragons.

I push myself up from my knees, breathing hard.

The past time of Dragon Slaying died out for the most part, with my grandparent's generation. Nearly every one was maimed beyond recognition, killed, or went insane.

I blink the rain out of my eyes and wipe at the sticky slice on my cheek. My vision clears from the blur of water.

Persuaded by themselves to be adversaries against literal gargantuan monsters, the human race never stood a chance. They would contend against vicious psychological warfare. Colossal crushing claws belonging to the bodies of behemoths. Armored scales that allow little to no damage from unenchanted sword steel. Teeth as big as a man and breath of fire.

My grandfather used to sit me on his lap and together we would dig into the past. He was a fierce, albeit kind man. A self proclaimed, self taught Dragon Slayer. Handsome if not for the missing half of his face from ear to jaw.

He would recount how they might train their whole lives to engage in combat that generally lasted mere seconds. The best survive, but only the exceptional succeed. Needless to say though, most just died.

But in a world full of mystery, of course magic too is not far behind. There are in existence, bewitched weapons that are created with the soul purpose of Dragon Slaying. Fashioned by powerful witches and wizards, ingrained with sorcery. Rare in existence, even rarer in use. Like the blade strapped to my waist. Forged centuries ago and passed down through my family for generations until it ended up in my hands.

With the thought, I look down at my long fingers and feel an intense sense of pride and purpose. These fists that are itching for bloodshed. They curl so seamlessly around the hilt of my sword. I am elated now, with the knowledge that I am capable of damage. I know I am.

Like those before me, I have prepared for war my entire existence. So, I have taken it upon myself in recent years, to singlehandedly revive the hobby of Dragon Slaying. My training would have been pointless otherwise. I don't expect much of a change within my lifetime, considering I am the only Slayer I know to still be dedicated to the cause. But hopefully my grandchildren's grandchildren might some day exist peacefully without the threat of Dragons.

A castle looms in front of me, just 100 yards ahead. It is massive, gothic in style, and a forged of deep grey rock, blending in with the huge, dark, low puffs of cloud in the background. I am with silly with delirium seeing what I have journeyed for so long to reach.

At 22 years old, I have outrun the life expectancy for the average Dragon Slayer. Most don't make it past 18. It really is an excruciating way of living. Family dead, neighbors and friends dead, the love of your life dead. The despair and desperation, the hopelessness and misery, this is what a Dragon Slayer makes.

I wish I could say that I am exempt from those experiences, but I find myself without kin and without support, a single person fighting a battle meant for thousands.

I have stopped before to consider if the notion is foolish, many times in fact. To believe that I could possibly conquer a Dragon alone. But no matter what I believe, what I feel. I have faith in my spirit and favor amongst the people. If I were to go off of instincts, terror would win out every time.

I swallow hard and take deliberate breaths. Then creep onward, hiding still between lush green vegetation and thick brush. I weave among trees, farther spaced out now, more meticulous with my step.

As I approach the fort, I can actually hear it before I see it. A swift, ferocious river surrounding the castle on all sides. Acting as a moat for the little island, I could tell. A very good one at that.

I gulp again and kick off my boots, then throw them as hard as I can to the opposite side of the barrier. I don't bide my time before diving in. I am not shocked when my skin makes contact with the fresh rainwater. It is frigid. I feel slime on my teeth and in my hair. The water weighs my clothes down with thick goo and I am struggling to stay afloat. Finally, I manage to twist my body around the current and paddle towards dry rock. I emerge coughing and sputtering, caked in green. Wet moss and algae adorn my toes.

Standing in the presence of the stone walls, I freeze and am suddenly overcome with the desire to turn and run miles away. I simultaneously realize that I've eaten the last of the rations almost 2 days ago and feel weak. I'm hungry. My stomach growls as if to prove a point.

Only a moment of doubt though, a flash of apprehension. "Move forward." I think, and my body is free from paralysis. I have bided my time for years in waiting for these moments. No going back now.

I slip up the slick steps, lumbering and tottering, my body stifled by clinging fabric.

My paranoia is overwhelming and I can hear warning whispers adrift in the wind. "Go back." they say.

Instead, I put my shoulder to the grainy mahogany and shove. One of the massive doors wrenches open, swings into the room with a shudder, and then creaks to a stop.

With a snarl on my lips and poison in my voice I greet the giant before me.

"Hello Dragon. I am here for your head."