Fairytale Ends

Once upon a time, there was a knight because there is always a knight. I don’t think I have to describe that guy to you because, honestly, they all look the same. They have blinding shiny armor that they make some poor esquire polish daily. They carry long swords that they sharpen every night like their masculinity depended on it. With every step they make, there is an annoying clinking sound, and every time they speak, there is nothing intelligent to be heard.

Oh, and they’re all called Sir Lance-A-Lot, or Sir Stab-A-Lot, or Sir Shout-A-Lot, or something. I think royalty gets to pick their name when they’re doing the, you know, sword thing. Touch the shoulder, touch the head, try not to cut anything important in the process, and say “I now pronounce you Sir Beg-A-Lot-For-This-Title-Now-Leave-Me-Alone!”

Yeah, that sounds about right. I wouldn’t know. By the time I meet them, they already have the armor, the sword, the horse, and the poor esquire that carries their things around as part of some unpaid internship. And you know what? These knights should pay their esquires something because, for the price of a single gold coin, they will give me access to their boss, no questions asked.

I like to think the kids are a little more discerning if someone looks threatening or vaguely insane. I just look like some guy, with me a sack full of coins and no beard on my face. For all they know, I’m harmless. If I want to pay the good Sir Knight a few rounds of beer at lunchtime, who are they to stop me?

Sir Knight really likes beer. He also really likes to boast. He tells me of the lands that he’s saved, the dragons he’s slain, the damsels he’s rescued, and - even though I do not ask and do not care - the damsels that were, oh, so grateful. I’m pretty sure most of these tales are lies, but I know for sure that the dragon ones are false. I have never met a dragon.

Well, I met one, but more on that later.

Once the beer has gotten to their head, I put on my little act.

“It’s so good that you’re here, Sir Knight, truly. I know of a poor, beautiful princess and… no, I shouldn’t speak of it. It’s too horrible. No, please, don’t insist, it’s so dangerous and horrible and so many bigger and braver knights have fallen prey to that beast before. Only the Bravest and the Biggest and the Strongest of knights could ever rescue that poor, beautiful, and most definitely helpless princess from the cruel and horrible dragon- Oh dear, did I say dragon? Oh my, I spoke too much. Please, don’t make me say more of this horrible tale- oh well, since you insist…”

Sir Knight has my full attention now. I think the prospect of glory and a helpless princess even sobered him up a little. So I put on my very best performance. Sometimes, I even do it in musical form. It’s really great.

The gist of it is:

“Deep into the forest, up the highest mountain, and sitting precariously at the verge of a cliff, there is an abandoned tower. It stretches up to the sky as far as the eye can see. And on top of that tower, asleep for many hundreds of years, is a beautiful princess.

“It is said that the dragon found the child in the woods. She was no more than a toddler, left unattended by a careless nanny. And the beast descended up her, whisking her away in its claws. You see, dragons love all that is precious, golden, and beautiful, and Princess Belle was all of those things. She was the jewel in the Beast’s collection.

“But dragons are avaricious, and when the girl grew into a beautiful young lady, he became jealous and fearful that a gallant, brave, and handsome knight would come to her rescue. So he called upon an evil witch and put her under a curse. She would be forever asleep at the top of the tower. Eternally beautiful. Eternally waiting. Waiting for that One Knight who would be her First Love’s Kiss and break the curse.”

Hook.

Line.

Sinker.

Every single time.

Sir Knight can’t wait to go up that mountain and claim his prize.

And if he wants to do it so badly, who am I to stop him? In fact, I will even help him. You see, long ago - and I mean many, many years ago, don’t even go looking for records of this because there are none - another knight came close to victory. He carried an enchanted armor and sword that would have protected him against the dragon. If he wore it in beneath the full moon, it would render the beast useless. No fire. No claws. No strength. The dragon wouldn’t stand a chance.

Alas, his selfish and cruel esquire stabbed him in the back out of jealousy and ran away with his sack of silver coins. Yes, so terrible. Can’t trust esquires these days. Make sure not to bring yours along.

Anyway, the good news is that the armor and sword are still at the bottom of that hill. Maybe if you wear that instead… maybe you’ll stand a chance.

The knight thanks me profusely for my story. The sun is setting. The full moon will be up in the sky in two days. It has to be enough time to get to the tower. He gives me a silver coin and gets ready for his journey.

I give the coin to his dismissed esquire, along with a hefty tip, and bid him farewell. I’m sure he will find better employment elsewhere.

As for Sir Knight, surely, glory awaits him at the top of that tower, but this isn’t a story about the knight, or the made-up dragon, or the made-up princess. This is a story about a couple of con artists, making the best of their unusual situation.

——

Let me get this out of the way for the children out there: stealing is wrong.

Unless you’re broke and starving and the people in charge couldn’t care less about you. You know, the people who keep sending knights into small villages to make sure the peasants aren't getting any revolutionary ideas. The same people who keep stabbing each other in the back and throwing the kingdom into financial and political turmoil because Cousin Henrietta was promised she'd be Queen by now, but Cousin Richard believes being a boy gives him divine right to rule, while the cadaveric King Georgino XXIV sits on the throne, occasionally dripping poison into the ungrateful brats wine so they stop trying to dethrone him.

In such desperate circumstances, I believe stealing is reasonably okay. I learned that from Luther, and I think he has the authority to speak on that. After all, he was one of those poor esquires, dragging some guy’s luggage behind him and trying to keep the scorn from his emaciated face.

Sure, Luther pushes the boundaries of what “reasonably okay” means on a daily basis. The blacksmith has chased him away from her shop many times because he tried to pocket an item that was left unsupervised. I don’t even think he wants them; I just think he enjoys causing havoc.

“You’re bad for business,” I tell him once again, though I don’t bother to look at him as I do so. I’ve finally got my back to pop, and if I move, I’m gonna ruin all of the little progress I have made soothing the pain.

Luther yells at me through the trapdoor. “I am the business.”

“Wench, please! Which one of us does all the hard work?”

“Yes, but which one of us has all the good ideas?”

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Don’t hate me because I’m clever, Ive. Some of us are the brains, while others are the… scales.”

I growl, but it’s more "helpless kitten" than "unhinged beast" at this stage of the turning.

He laughs. I laugh, too, but my lungs are burning and I’m standing on my hands and on the tips of my toes. All I can do is cough. You’d think that I’d be a fire-spitting beast with all of the unpleasant side effects, but no, of course not. That would mean life has given me a break. Usually, life just sneers at me and says, “Here! You’re immune to smoke. Be grateful. Now, go away.”

I’m about to tell Luther where he can shove his opinions. I’m not one to measure words when it comes to my partner in crime, but the sun is set and the worst of it has begun. No, 15 years of this abuse have not made it easier. This nightly transformation includes the dislocating of bones and the stretching of muscles and - my personal favorite - the growing of new teeth. Rows of it. My very human tongue hurts from all the stabbing, but soon it becomes thick, forked, and hissing, and I don’t worry about that anymore.

All of those men coming through town with their shiny armor, sword, and shield, they all tell me of the dragons they’ve slain. It’s always the last one. The very last dragon. The end of the beasts who used to reign supreme. And I know they’re all lying because dragons don’t engage in battle. Much like a snake, dragons are cunning and subtle. They’re not waiting for a strike while sitting on a pile of gold.

They’re looking for prey.

Perhaps a knight in shiny armor who bit more than he could chew. A knight who thought that he was brave enough to face a creature when they were not.

Or perhaps... perhaps they'd rather have a little boy. A peasant child whose parents already had too many children to care for. Someone who could slip away to chase a dragonfly and end up in a predator’s grasp. Someone a knight could run past with only a glance. Someone so insignificant they wouldn't bother saving.

Someone too small for a dragon to eat, but young enough to be turned. Someone who could perpetuate their dying species.

I writhe. I twist. I leave claw marks on top of older claw marks on the stone floor. The pain crests into a peak and when it does, I finally let out a scream, but no one other than Luther would recognize the pain in it. To everyone else, the sound is beastly. Angry. Scary. Something that a knight would follow to find a beast to slay.

As the woods around us settle into the darkness of night, I see Luther’s dark, braided hair as he pulls himself up the trapdoor. There is plenty of space for him, not because the abandoned tower is large, but because I’m a pathetic little dragon boy. Picture books carry images of creatures as large as mountains. I’m more… travel-sized, if you will. Luther places my height at “maybe a really tall moose” and my length at “about two carriages after they've been smooshed together”. The general consensus from the knights that cross our path seems to be, “I was hoping for bigger, but that will do.”

I can still curl inside the walls, leaving only a dangling, green tail behind. Luther told me that the color and the scales make it look like ivy, so I always rest it on the outside of the tower, just where the crawling moss ends. If I move it at the right time, I can give the knights a good fright. It’s fun.

I’m nothing like the dragon that cursed me. That one was the mountain type, with wings that caused storms and yellow eyes that peered cruelly at you through the branches of trees. The beast was the color of copper and gold, with scales shaped like the end of a lance and just as sharp.

I’m the color of wet moss, with scales shaped like the leaves from the maple trees.

I don’t know where that dragon went after leaving a crescent-moon scar on my chest. I don’t know if it looked at me satisfied with the results or disappointed that I was such a brittle thing. I wonder if I’ll have the chance to ask the beast that someday. I mean, before I try to stab it through the heart because of the, you know, pain and trauma it has caused me, but I like to think I'll have time for a question.

If I have nothing else, at least I have the right to dream.

Luther picks up my clothes, shoves them in his satchel, and pats my scaly head with more concern than pity.

“Ready for the show?”

I move my shoulders and stretch my winged arms. If Sir Knight sees it, so be it. I'm here for his benefit anyway.

I say, “Sure,” but the voice isn’t mine anymore. It’s a hissing sound that I can only make by lapping the air with my itchy, forked tongue, which immediately floods me with forest smells. Foxes, birds, leaves…

And desperation.

That last one isn’t of the forest, though.

“He’s here.”

——

Luther picks up the sack he’s put together. Rations, bedding, water. Everything we need to survive at the bottom of the cliff for a few days if we need to.

Once he’s all ready to go, he fills his chest with air. I cover my very sensitive ears and he lets out a shrieking scream that makes the birds nearby flock away. My voice - my human voice - cracked three summers ago into a raspy thing I barely recognize. Luther’s did, too, but it quickly settled into something pitchy, something too nasal and too high for his comfort. But it’s perfect to lure knights in.

Yeah, sure, Princess Belle is supposed to be cursed or something, but I’m yet to meet a knight who stops to question the plot holes in my story.

Luther disappears under the trap door and gets to work. He lights the coal on fire and lets the black smoke fill the room until there is nowhere to go but the two little windows at the top. Soon, I am covered in smoke and the knight can’t see just how disappointing I truly am. I don’t spit fire and I’m not as big as the dragons in books and paintings. Technically, I’m not even a dragon-dragon; I’m a wyvern, but Luther said knights don’t know the difference.

“If it’s scaly and it can be stabbed, it’s a dragon. Let’s not confuse them more than their little brains can take, yes?”

Sir Knight can’t see me, but I can see him and- oh, yes! He’s left his shiny, beautiful, expensive sword and armor at the bottom of the mountain. Instead, he’s wearing light and cheap tin. No, they don’t stop to think about it. It’s shiny and it’s magical. Who cares that it’s light and sort of dented? Oh, and the sword is crafted from wood? Magic wood! It makes sense!

I’m not gonna kill the guy. I could. These claws work just fine and that tin armor wouldn’t stand a chance. But blood is messy and humans smell disgusting on a good day. Also, I am human. Sort of. Like, from morning to evening. And sometimes to mid-afternoon because winters here suck.

The point is, I’m just going to scare him a bit and then let him “defeat me”. See, this isn’t too bad. He’ll still get a story out of it.

Amidst the smoke, I rise in my tower and get my claws on the walls, staring down at Sir Knight, wings fully outstretched.

“Puny, cowardly human!” I say, projecting as much power as I can. “You dare enter my domain and steal from my treasures! Turn back now and-“

Okay, he’s battle-crying and charging. I don’t even know why I prepare a monologue anymore. These days, they just want to stab. No time for dramatic flair.

I climb down the tower.

From the rope he’s using to make his way down, Luther asks, “Already?”

It puts me in an awkward position, but I put my face next to his.

“We’ve got one with anger issues. Oh, he’s swinging at my leg.”

“Kick him off! I need another 30 minutes head start!”

“I can’t kick him off!” I hiss, pulling my left leg just a little out of reach because the whacking of a wooden sword, while harmless, is still so annoying. “He’s gonna know the magic isn’t real!”

“You’re a natural, Ive! Improvise!”

Luther carries on down the tower and into the mouth of the cliff. He’s fine. There’s a tunnel just a few feet below. It’s gonna take him to where the spoils of battle await, but that will demand time.

So I swallow my pride and turn my attention to Sir Knight.

“You think you can defeat me, human!”

I spread my wings and take the to sky. My tail is still sort of dangling, along with my bottom half. Dragons are heavy, okay? I’m not ruining my spine for the sake of aesthetics.

Sir Knight doesn’t seem to care about that. He brandishes his sword and- oh, he still has the shield. That’s worth a lot of coins. Gonna have to take it from him somehow.

“Do not come close, human! I will destroy you and your princess will forever be-“

“TASTE MY MAGIC BLADE, YOU FOUL BEAST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

He charges toward me. The dragon. With talons. Who’s soaring above the ground. Out of reach. And who supposedly spits fire.

Okay. So the man is an idiot. Good that we got that out of the way.

What proceeds is the dumbest game of catch one has ever seen. As in, he jumps with the sword at me and I sort of bob out of the way. Slash. Slash. Bob. Bob. Honestly, it’s a bit ridiculous.

However, I do manage to swing my tail just right and whip that shield off of his arm. I toss it over the cliff. Hopefully, it lands within Luther's reach.

Sir Knight is looking at me, confused.

Oh no. The one gear between his ears is turning slowly, almost formulating a thought.

How did I touch him? Wasn’t the armor supposed to be magic?

Okay. Change of plans. I hope Luther is ready.

“Oh nooooo!” I hiss, plopping onto the ground and backing away like a scared puppy. “Oh, noooo! The magic! You are wearing the maaaagic! Oh noooo!”

He jumps to his feet.

Yes!

Back on track.

“Back off, beast!”

I do. I back into the cliff.

“No, please! Don’t throw me off the cliff! Falling off of cliffs is my only weakness!”

I move around a little. I pretend to put up a fight just to make it interesting. I grow tired of being humiliated, though. I’d rather have the cliff.

So I flung myself off of it.

If Sir Knight looks, he will see sharp rocks and darkness that conceals me. He won’t risk the climb just to get my head. The tacky decor on the wall isn’t worth it. His time is better spent climbing the tower and rescuing the sleeping princess.

He won’t find her, of course. Climbing the tower will be a pain because the stairs are blocked and it takes forever to clear the way. And when he gets to the room clearly marked “Princess Room” by a helpful sign beside the door, he will only find a little heart sculpted out of coal, along with a sad little note from the princess.

The princess has been the dragon all along.

Whaaaat? Plot twist!

“Dear Sir Knight,” says the note. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. However, there is nothing left to save. You see, years ago the beast turned me into one of his kind and I was cursed to live as a foul dragon. I hope that you have brought my misery to an end. If so, please take what is left of my heart with you. All my love, Princess Belle.”

Yes, it’s tacky, but trust me. It makes for a good story. Sometimes I shake things up. Sometimes it’s a glass slipper. Or a doll made of stone. Once, when I was feeling gruesome, it was the eye of a goat, floating in a jar. Let me tell you, I never saw a knight run so fast.

Whether he’ll keep the coal heart or squeeze it until it cracks out of frustration, it doesn’t matter. He'll still have a story of heroics to brag about at the infinitesimal cost of a bruised ego when he realizes his armor, sword, and shield are gone.

I wait for the clinking sound of metal to die in the distance and I squeeze myself into the little cave to wait for Luther. When the morning comes, he'll have the spoils of battle. The Blacksmith will be pleased.

As for myself, I'll have half of everything we make, plus the sore muscles to show for my hard work.

Oh, and the knowledge that I've humiliated another sanctimonious knight. That, in my humble opinion, is truly priceless.