On The Retirement of St. George

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Of course, when the dragons first moved in, some fleshier residents in the Homeowners Association had a tumult on the matter. They had heard the tales (just as you have, I am certain) of murderous, ravenous, fire-breathing creatures. These folks in the Association were no bigots, they assured all of us. They just didn’t want to be careless.

The dragons’ names were George and Stephen. Perfectly respectable names for perfectly respectable fellows. Life-long mates since the ages of 103 and 129 (respectively), the pair were impeccable neighbors – amiable, generous, always hosting valley-wide parties in their immense cave at the southern end of town.

But some people are just impossible to please, no matter how skilled a host you are. Gloriana, my apprentice and partner-in-story, was such a woman.

“Off to see the dragons again, Jubal?” Gloriana asked as I began to gather my things together, marking the end of another unproductive workday.

“Of course– need to get ready first and all. Did you not see the flier? Posted out front? Party tonight?”

“I saw, ma’am.”

I narrowed my eyes. “We might be better collaborators, Gloriana, if I weren’t so well-acquainted with your disapproving scowl.”

“Hmph.”

“Gloriana, you are far too much a hmph-ing novice to hurl one at me so artlessly.”

Hmphery is quite a serious thing for an elderly storyteller, you see. We must use such expressions sparingly and only to great effect. I can manage some youthful impetuousness from Gloriana (the child is centuries my junior), but disrespect to such a sacred exclamation is several bridges too far.

“I just think you need to be careful.” She continued, her tone and volume growing softer together in response to my aggression. This did not discourage me.

“Careful, she says! Careful!” I bellowed, causing a small earthquake around my feet. “What danger awaits me this evening that did not await me in all the rest, dear girl? Do you worry that they will eat me as an hors d’oeuvre? Or perhaps that I shall faint from the tastiness of Steve’s flaming cocktails?”

Gloriana put her head down and returned to writing. She did not answer my questions, which angered me further. But I did not press.

Hmph indeed.

~~~

“Steve my love, could you come help me with the curtains up here? I cannot seem to get a handle of them on my own.”

George’s voice floated fuzzily through the makeshift speaker lodged in the stone wall of our wine cellar. The man is a brilliant engineer – able to weave together metal gears and magical energies with more elegance than the finest-fingered Elves and Gnomes of Elder Galatia.

His artificing skill had allowed us to carve out the lives we had, so far from the traditional lifestyles of our kind. Of course, we have never been traditional members of our kind. Most dragons do not mate for life, and we are the first ones to own a wine cellar (as far as I know).

“Of course, Georgie.”

I gingerly pushed the burgundy lever to my right (not the purple one, as Georgie had clarified to me so many times), safely sealing our alcohol as the cool stone slid carefully back into place. Unfurling my wings, I leapt up to the entrance floor of our home in the mountain.

There, my hapless husband hovered 10 feet above the ground, a mess of tangled twine and tapestry. As my whooshing wings announced my arrival, he turned to look at me, a familiar sheepish grin already stretched across his face.

“I got stuck.”

Mirat above, something about that grin has always been so attractive to me. And it still is! After centuries! It is a blessing. There is no other word for him.

I smiled back. “The Grand St. George, Artificer of Angels, Savior of the Coral Gnomes, Bane of the Galatian Workshops–”

“Yes, yes, yes. The legendary dragon is stuck.”

“Not just stuck – wholly enmeshed! In a simple curtain!"

“It is by no means a simple curtain! It has fun little bats on it. See?”

I abandoned my teasing with a laughing sigh. “It is quite a fun pattern indeed. Come now.” I turned to the wall of gadgets that lined the back wall of our entryway, and uttered a command phrase in our native tongue, ancient as the world itself.

Kir Palagana Fila-si

Loosely translated, “Dragons can have fingers too.”

A blur of motion ensued as seven rings flew from the wall onto my front claws. Upon arrival, each one sprouted a small metal arm, about two feet in length. This was one of George’s most important inventions, spawning thousands of uses in the years since he created them.

As I put his creation to work, my beloved was soon free. I laughed again, looking at the curtain dangling between my mechanical finger-arms. “How did you get yourself all mixed up here, darling?”

“You want the honest answer? I’m not entirely certain. The mind isn’t what it used to be, I suppose.”

“Strange! Are you feeling alright?” I began to examine him closely. He had no habit of forgetfulness. Perhaps he had fallen ill.

“Perfectly fine, But I’ve been developing some theories about our minds.”

“Is that so?” I muttered as I inspected his face for any signs of sickness. His sunset-orange scales were as bright and wondrous as ever. His green-and-white eyes held nothing but amusement and affection.

“Dragons don’t go senile, of course. But we also don’t tend to live this long. We may be some of the oldest of our kind ever to exist.”

“I suppose that would make sense.” I pressed my face against his lower chest, feeling the warmth of the fire within. “Breathe deeply for me?”

He complied. “It really is a marvel, don’t you think? Dragons who can live out their days in a peaceful retirement?”

His breath sounded no worse than normal. Strange. “A marvel for which I am endlessly grateful.” I pressed my face into his powerful neck, searching only for him, no longer his illness. He curled his head up and over mine.

We rested there for some time, breathing in time with each other. Feeling the other’s warmth. My mind wandered to our many centuries of history together. My body filled with gratitude.

Suddenly, a noise broke through the spell.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Someone at the door, in all likelihood. Why must they be so loud? “Do you think it’s an early guest?” George did not reply. “What do you think they’re knocking with? A battering ram?” I chuckled.

George remained silent. I broke the snuggle and uncurled from him, only to see that he did not appear to be present at all. He seemed frozen. Fixed in place. How strange. In his eyes, a mixture of terror and wonder. Even stranger.

“Georgie? Darling?” Nothing.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Aldubal above. Whoever was at the door, they would regret their rudeness.

“I’ll come back soon Georgie.”

~~

It was the frontier of twilight when I left Retangi Hall for George and Stephen’s cave. The edges of the valley had just been crowned with the first brushstrokes of an early sunset.

Gloriana’s sour attitude echoed still in my mind. She wasn’t a bad apprentice– truly. And while she had never quite trusted the dragons, she was seldom so disrespectful about them. Something was deeply distressing her. Worrisome.

“Hullo there!”

A strange voice. New to me. I knew everyone in the Valley of Song – a visitor, perhaps?

“Hullo to you, I suppose!” I looked around and could see no discernible origin to the voice in the dusklight.

“Are you a friend to the friendless?” The voice sounded fleshy. Perhaps a human.

“I suppose it depends on why they’re friendless, doesn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I took a deep breath and started listening through the stone, trying to identify the source of the voice. “I’ve known quite a few friendless fellows who deserved to be such.”

The person was standing about forty feet to my right. But I could hear more people hidden in the area. What was this?

A figure melted into view in front of me. Forgan Featherview. Head of the Homeowner’s Association. He had no real power in town – that belonged to myself and my longtime rival, the Farmchief Ana – but that didn’t matter to him.

Forgan was a graphite pencil of a man. The sort who smelled of lavender from armpit to asshole. He smiled (if such a person can truly smile) and lit a torch. “You’ve taken too long to reply, Storychief.”

Out of nowhere, a golden blur rushed at me, wrapping around my neck. My connection to the earth beneath me was severed. I had never felt something like this in my life.

“You want a reply, elf?” I choked. My vision was leaving me. “An easy request. My answer is no.”

Forgan continued. “Forgive me for any confusion, dear Jubal.”

More torches were lit. My senses had clearly dulled – there were at least thirty creatures in the group. Each of them advanced on me slowly.

“We are not asking.”

~~~

I folded my wings and raced down to the front doors, working to keep my temper under control. The doors were a complicated thing. They had to be – George and I had made many, many enemies in the course of our long life, and we wanted our retirement to be as secure as it could possibly be.

Upon arriving, I looked through the peephole.

I couldn’t believe it.

Another dragon.

You have to understand, dear reader – neither George nor I had seen another of our kind for nearly a century. We were, in polite terms, “no longer welcome” among most of the Dragon Kingdoms.

In less polite terms, we were to be “killed on sight."

So to see one pop up at our front door, however rudely, was an overflowing delight. I set upon the front-door mechanisms with vigor, letting out a loud growl of joy. “Georgie!! You must come to the front this instant!” No reply from him. Worry began to seep in at the border of my happiness.

I looked again through the peephole, ensuring I had not hallucinated or missed a sign of clear danger. The dragon was young, likely barely an adult. Male, in all likelihood. He had the same sunset-orange scales as George and appeared to be weeping. Profusely.

“It’s okay – I’m here!” I yelled out into the loudspeaker. “Just need a moment to get these doors.”

“Please. I’m in danger.” The stranger’s voice floated back. Even through the fuzziness of the speaker, I could hear the emotion in their voice. Concerning. Could this be a trap of some kind?

At that point, it was too late to back out. The doors began to swing open slowly. I winced and retreated slightly into our home, suddenly concerned that someone would hurl bombs or ballistae at me given the opportunity.

No bombs or arrows greeted me – only a very pitiful sight.

“Great-uncle Stephen?” Tears coated the front of the creature’s face, glinting in the torchlight.

I smiled, feeling the tell-tale tingle of tears brewing behind my eyes. “My name is indeed Stephen, young one, though I cannot speak to the greatness of my avuncularity.”

As soon as I said “Stephen,” the child leapt into my home with the alacrity of a tiger. “Close them! Please! Close the doors!”

I obliged, pressing a button that slammed them shut instantaneously.

He continued. “Please, please, please forgive my rudeness.” He started crying again, heaving with heavy, smoky sobs. “I’m so sorry. My name is Alan. It’s an honor to meet you. Please. I’m so sorry.”

The boy was clearly in some kind of shock. The tears did not stop pouring out of him. I retracted my right claws and rubbed his back, hoping to comfort him. This just made him cry more.

I interrupted one of his sobs – “Alan, are you being pursued by someone right now? Do we need to be concerned?"

I did not think it was possible for his weeping to worsen. I was mistaken. He collapsed against me, rubbing his head under my neck, choking out a response. “I was on a quest. To find you all. Most of all great-uncle George. I’m so sorry. I’ve brought danger to your door.” The poor boy. “Your front door. I’m so sorry.”

“On a quest? And what sort of danger?” I was growing more concerned by the second. “Who is pursuing you, child?”

He did not reply. I led him through our home up to our parlor room, where I had left my husband earlier. We had two dragon-sized couches there – wildly soft, comfortable things George had designed to specially accommodate our lumpy, gargantuan frames.

Except when I arrived, George was nowhere to be found.

~~~

The situation had officially become worrisome.

I had often told stories of revolutionary mobs wielding pitchforks against an abusive tyrant. I had not expected to find myself a victim of such a mob. But expectations don’t make for very good stories, I suppose.

I was surrounded by scoundrels, each of them sporting an expressionless face. I would have wanted some passion behind my death, but this too made sense. Murderers are, after all, faceless creatures. Before a person can willingly extinguish the life of another, they must first extinguish their own. Every murder is a murder-suicide.

“You are out of options, Storychief.” Forgan was talking again. “Which is it going to be? Will you sign? Or will you die?”

But no– not all the faces were expressionless. One of the creatures seemed to be making eye contact with me. Quite intently, in fact! I looked right back. I could make out a glint of concern in the eyes, though not much else from the face.

“We’re growing bored, Jubal.” Forgan had the voice of a needle. An offense to sound itself.

I tried to connect to the stone once again. No point.

“I’m going to count down from ten, how does that sound?”

The creature making eye contact stepped forward. Odd.

“Ten…”

A flash of red hair – suddenly, I realized. Gloriana was in the crowd, signaling to me through eye contact.

“Nine…”

Gloriana started running towards me. I looked at Forgan and smiled back at him.

This would be fun.

~~~

“George? Georgie?” Panic started to set in. Where could he have gone? I had never seen him freeze like that before. Nor had I ever been unable to find him in our own home.

In the background, Alan continued weeping.

I yelled into every speaker I could find. I flew to every room, every corner I knew of. I could not find my husband anywhere. I was panting from the exertion (and the panic), every breath drawing smoke.

Suddenly, a distressing thought arose within me.

“Alan, do you know what happened to my husband?”

The stranger looked up, his expression an atlas of shame.

He did not need to respond. His face had done so in his stead. I growled.

“I’m so sorry.”

I approached on foot.

“Please– Great-uncle Stephen. You don’t understand.”

It would be a miracle if the boy survived the night.