Dragons

Powerful, strong, kind and grand. A narrative upheld by the villagers of the kingdom.

What did it mean to be a dragon? Was a dragon only a dragon if his scales could deflect the sharpest steel? Or perhaps only if its spikes sat upright, sharp, and deadly. Though, there is the case of dragons who could spew a poison that stunk for days.

Could a seven-headed man, who dawned skin of leather and a fat wyrm tail be a dragon? No, he couldn't possibly be. For even if his blood ran as cold as one, there was a problem with his face. It could not evoke fear or respect. It was human.

So for Ábel's long youth, he spent days wondering where the beast in him begins and ends. What makes him so different from his mother? He towered over humans, and even a slight grip would tear into their skin. His voice rang out throughout town, surely even the distant kingdoms could hear him. Servants were treated to feasts each night. Festivals never failed to turn up a swelling crowd. No family would go without a pig for the winter. And his hair, it was just like hers. It would get matted and she would always pull a bit too rough with the comb. He's never been able to learn how to prevent a tough knot.

When he became too frustrated over the question of why, he began to throw blame on to his father. It was of childish anger, but he threw fists into the ground. Oh, how I wish mother had never loved you! You doomed me. You doomed me father. How selfish of you to ruin this kingdom, and how selfish of me to ever be angry at you for it. Father, I'm sorry. I never should blame you, and I should never speak so ill of the dead. But I am all alone.

A great mangling dragon, with knots in his chestnut hair and clenched teeth.