Smuggler of Dragons

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley”

It’s been said for as long as anyone can remember.

Over and over.

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley”

Taught to every child, understood by every elder, repeated to everyone in between. Across the continent, every person born in the last century knows some version of it.

“There weren’t always dragons in the Mountains”

“There weren’t always dragons in the Sea”

“There weren’t always dragons in the Forests”

“There weren’t always dragons in the Rivers”

No matter where you go, the idea is there. The understanding that the dragons were not always here, or there, or anywhere. That they are not eternal.

The story changes from place to place: those in the North say the wind and snow became creatures of ice, the cold come to life, solidified by the ancient magic that lies dormant in the land itself. In the South, some say the dragons are a punishment, sent by a vengeful deity to ‘correct’ the sins of the races. The mountain dwellers of the caves and mines tell tales of machines that grew into living breathing creatures after being abandoned by their creators; the peoples of the Central and Western forests talk of trees and animals fabricating protectors for themselves, after decades of exploitation by neighboring kingdoms.

The details change. But everyone has been taught the same story, underneath.

The elders all listen to the stories of people going missing, being killed or mutilated by dragon breath and claws and teeth; they all share knowing looks as the children ask why the dragons have killed their fathers and brothers, their sisters and mothers, their cousins and aunts and uncles that ventured into the wilds and did not return. Some went with the armies of rulers intent on killing the beasts where they lie. Some went with merchant caravans to trade goods across faraway borders. Some were simply caught in the wrong place after dark on their way home.

Some were desperate. They fled into the wild places, hoping that what they found would not be as horrid as what they were trying the escape.

The children always get the same answers. Comfort, usually; help and support from others, sometimes. And always, always, more of the same story:

“There weren’t always dragons…”

∻

But how could they know? How could these elders know that? How could theirs? How could anyone alive today know that the dragons were not always there, have not been there since time immemorial, ruling over their respective lands? How could they know that the dragons are responsible for all the missing people, the lethal injuries, the orphans and widows and people left alone when someone didn’t return home? How?

They weren’t there, they didn’t see it. No one has ever encountered a dragon and lived to tell about it. You can hear their roars, see their silhouettes as they fly, watch them from afar (very far) as they wreak havoc, destroying everything they wish in their path. So how would these elders, these teachers, these mothers and fathers and relatives and older siblings that told us, told everyone, from as soon as we could understand language, that the dragons had not always been a part of this world, that they had been created or sent or summoned; how could they know that? How could they know?

They don’t.

History is just stories that everyone agrees on. You don’t need to prove that the stories are true if everyone agrees with them, passes them on to their children, teaches them in their schools.

The kings and queens, the rulers and law-makers, the elders and parents of this world will all tell you that they know everything there is to know about everything. They are supposed to have all the information, all the knowledge, all the solutions; whether by divine right or the wisdom that comes with age and experience. You are supposed to trust that they know, and that they are making the “right choices” for the rest of us.

But in truth, amongst themselves, whispered in their private chambers and meetings, they know almost nothing. They know they know nothing. In their own heads, they recognize that they know frighteningly little about the dragons, and behind their facades of confidence and divinely gifted power and age-old-wisdom, they sit trembling in terror, like the rest of their people, shaking with the fear of the seemingly indestructible beasts that roam their lands. There is a reason that each kingdom is an island, separated from the others by stretches of land and water where dragons roam free. Why the borders are not marked outside of city limits, and soldiers will not follow fugitives past a certain tree line or coast. Why traded items between different kingdoms are so expensive, and rarely ever make it out of the upper classes. It’s the nobility's best-kept secret in all of the continent’s larger kingdoms.

Most of the people living under them believe that their rulers do actually know what they are doing, at least in regards to the dragons. It’s often one of the only things that the majority of any one ruler’s subjects agree on in terms of political policy. They don’t, of course; almost all of the leaders on the continent are grasping at straws, following the uncertain advice of their councils and advisors, often based on old myths and nonsensical theories. But their people believe them when they proclaim their royal expertise, believe that their orders to send more troops, more taxes, more resources, etcetera are made with the steadfast knowledge of an assured victory. Or, at least, an eventual victory. Most believe them.

Most.

Perhaps that is why they continue to lie. To their children, their subjects, to themselves. Why they continue to wage wars against foes they know nearly nothing about. Why they waste resources fighting an enemy that they never seem to be able to find (or, to find before the enemy finds them). Why they send more and more men and women to disappear into the wilds, only to return traumatized and maimed (if they return at all).

Why they continue to say “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley”

Maybe it’s easier to believe that you can defeat something that hasn’t always been there.

Something that wasn’t there before anything else.

Something that won’t outlast everything they could ever hope to create, Something that will outlast it all, if it is not destroyed before it gets the chance.

And yet, for all their repetitions, all their lessons and warnings, there are outliers. As with all educational systems, there are those that never quite believed what they were being told. Never quite “got it.” Those who needed to see it for themselves to truly believe in it. To see the dragons. Up close.

Those who ventured into the wilds willingly, unsure of what they would find, some doubting that they would find anything at all.

Those who left.

And did not return.

At least, not as the same people they were when they left.

Not as themselves.

Not without changing.