The Dragon's Den

When was I ever happy?

I often pondered this question within this realm. 

Dragons, those that were feral of mind, often felt happy for the most inane of reasons. A good hunt. A destructive rampage. A new addition to their hoard. Beasts are simple to please. For ones such as myself, who learned from humans, happiness came from knowing I was a revered god. I did not know my own kin’s tongue in favor of the human language, and humans had many languages. Arabic, Greek, English, Hebrew, Serbian, Hittite, Palaic, Sumerian… Languages shifted across the swathes of land these creatures made their homes. 

I learned human speech very easily in my youth. Speaking it, however, was a difficult task entirely. Human tongues were built strong to shape their words into meaning, while my own throat was crafted for roars and rumbles. It took me a decade—no, maybe more — before I could pronounce the sound ‘tak’, the first sound of ‘takallama’(تكلَّم), or ‘Speak’. I had to know how to command a subject properly, and granting them permission to speak had been the first step in my mastery. 

I do not remember when I finally grasped the language of humans. It just happened one day, like a butterfly breaking free from its chrysalis. A caterpillar knows not its time to molt from its cocoon and spread its wings, it simply knows that it must.

I recall all of this when I think about my happiest moment.

It had been, perhaps, a fortnight since my second wielder’s passing. Well, I say passing when I mean he was killed, that dog. The woman that lifted me was young— about as young as I was in my adolescence. When she lifted me, we naturally connected souls, and she was the first since the boy of Hambletone, to witness my essence from within.

Often, she would speak in a language I knew very well; English. There wasn’t really a need to try and understand her own tongue. Being what I was—a soul within what was now an axe—our thoughts and feelings were shared without need for translation…

…Sometimes.

There were words she used that defied any in my own lexicon. She didn’t speak Arabic, nor Greek, Hebrew, or Serbian. No, it was a different language entirely. 

It was called Xhosa. 

Understanding it quickly was what I wished for whenever she spoke of hunting strategies between her people. All I would need to do was slink within her spirit’s mind. But she would not allow me to do so. 

“You learn. like us,” she snapped, “Divine or no, you must learn through struggle. That is the strength of our ancestors.”

Needless to say, I was quite vexed. For a measly human to scold me like a hatchling was an affront to my very nature. But to flee from the challenge would also be an affront to my own pride. 

So, I learned. 

Each evening before rest, my third would teach me sounds, pronunciation, and how to click my tongue against the roof of my maw. It was far easier now in spirit than when I was flesh and bone. Every moment we spoke, we shared fractions of ourselves with one another. 

At first, I was only capable of saying “I am Mysherra,” with enough confidence to elude playful ridicule. Yet, each time I practiced, I got closer to understanding her. She would regale me with stories of conquest, in her own language, asking me to repeat what was told in her tongue. And I would listen. 

I would listen until the morning yawned above the sea. 

“Ungumphulaphuli olungileyo.” She told me one day. It meant, “You are a good listener.”

It was the only thing I could do. Listen. In the hands of that old sailor, I was used as a tool for war, a means to an end. Keep silent and rend flesh asunder. Before then, that boy… I swear I was a mother to him more than I was a blade. 

When my third complimented me, my nature as a dragon demanded that I hold my snout up in the air and snort. Obviously, I was a good listener, my insides whispered.

But it was not what came from my lips. 

“Enkosi.” I said. “Thank you.” 

Thank you.

Ha. Ha, ha! Thank you! This coming from a dragon! My kin would have never let me live it down! 

Humility? Coming from me? I would sooner tear the feathers from my wings than admit to such frailty!

But I did. I did, and I meant it. I was grateful to still have so much to learn. I was grateful that this one was so patient— accommodating, yet still so incredibly stubborn, just as we creatures are. I was grateful that she had given me so many stories to listen to because that meant more to learn, more for us to share. 

My nature was destructive. It celebrated bloodshed and imposed fear. It craved the reverence of lesser beings, as they would sacrifice themselves for my favor. Yet, in her presence, that nature had quelled. There was no need for it. During the war, I wished for a day that I could return to being the thoughtless, hedonistic demons that slaughtered for their own amusement. It would be easier to be selfish than to be selfless.

Oh, but this warmth— this sunlight… I wanted to bask in it forever that day. I wanted to bask in it forever the next. 

I was happy. 

I was so… happy.