The Wenger's Building

There weren't always dragons in the valley. We had managed to contain them, after a fashion, in the old Wenger's Department Store building on Grainger Street for years. But that was a very, very long time ago. When I say ‘we’ and 'contain', to be completely honest, they wanted to be there and they are dragons, so...

They chose the place and who wouldn't, it was one of the most beautiful buildings in Newcastle (Novocastria, if you fancy a bit of Latin, who doesn't?). Building had been completed in 1886 after architect John Johnson decided to create something splendid in the French Renaissance style for Newcastle’s most sought after street. Dragons as you may have heard have taste, so when the department store closed its doors for the last time in 1984, they moved on in.

At the time of their arrival there was a great bamboozlement as to how they got inside the place without even so much as one pane of glass cracked. You see, one minute there were no dragons and the next there were. I asked Cynefrid and Eadberht how they did it. Obviously, after I'd worked out how to have some general chit chat with an, until then, mythical creature (that was no mean feat I can assure you, I mean, how many people do you know who can flipping well speak conversational Dragon at the age of eleven, even now?). They said it was as easy as walking through a door. They'd felt the pull, you see, the beautiful old building held the perfect balance between Earth and Aether, an energy centre, a battery of sorts (possibly not a coincidence that it had once been the Newcastle and Gateshead Gas Company HQ). They'd been waiting and watching it for years, even when it was originally built and The Abyssinian Gold Jewellery Company were in residence. Because they feed on that ancient power the building seemed to harness and knowing what was to come to our world, they slipped through timelines, popped through a portal from their home in the 12th dimension and into their luxury Grainger Street abode.

The mid 1980's populace of Newcastle had more on their minds than the arrival of Eadberht, Cynefrid and their scaly comrades, what with the miners’ strike and worrying about people starving to death in Ethiopia. So, as you can imagine, seven dragons of varying size, taking to the skies of Newcastle was, at first, greeted with complete disbelief. Anyone who said they’d seen such beasts was heartily guffawed at and told they'd been watching too much of the ol’ goggle box or proclaimed as ‘mortal’ (the colloquial for blind drunk, the irony being of course that at such a point of extreme drunkenness one actually believes themselves capable of flight, of having superhero powers and of being, yes, you guessed it, immortal - you couldn't make it up). But I’D seen them. I had been eleven, in town shopping with my mam, dad and little brother and definitely not drunk. ‘Strange’ my mam had called me, yes, but one hundred percent not drunk. I’d known immediately what I was seeing as one glittering copper head peeked through one of the uppermost windows.

Oh, I completely forgot to introduce myself. I'm Ellie, well, Eleni really but my little brother, Alfie, called me Ellie from the moment he had any idea of who this big sister of his was, so it just stuck. I've been alive for quite a spell, quite a spell indeed, that's what comes with befriending dragons and, as every vampire novel will tell you, it is both a blessing and a curse being alive longer than those you love. I am just over two hundred years young. I reached my mid-thirties and that was it, I stopped ageing. Ha, admit it, you thought I was going to say eighteen or mid-twenties! Thank goodness no, you've got to have a bit about you, you know, have some understanding of life, a laughter line or three and thank goodness for the uplifting power of armour. It's not that I'm immortal, so don't go thinking that nonsense, it's just that I am still here.

People struggled knowing there were such creatures residing in Newcastle City Centre. No, ‘struggled’ is a gross understatement, they were utterly terrified, some scared out of their wits and all remaining sensibilities. They talked of burning the building down, of killing the dragons by any means necessary. You can imagine how many men saw themselves as the new St George. Groups of them banded together, all hollering on about protecting the women and children from these fearsome, ferocious beasts, without ever having taken the time to meet Eadberht, Beldon, Corliss, Cynefrid, Dudda, Edolie or Fairfax. They seemed to take great offence that dragons had dared come to Newcastle, willfully not comprehending the very reason for their advent. Oh and don't get me wrong, it wasn't just men who thought this way, it's just that they seemed to be the driving force of such movements.

It fell to those of us who had an inkling, a funny feeling (you know what I mean) that there’s more to it, to life, than what you see on a day-to-day basis, to keep some semblance of order. I thank my lucky stars that my lovely, fantasy fiction obsessed Dad was one of us. The poor man was ridiculed for his ability to see what others didn’t want to see, that these ancient beings were here to help us, not to be hunted. Not once did he stop standing up for what was right, what is still to this very day, right. And although he’s not here to see what I have become, I feel a pride for his passion that burns hard and bright within me too.

Almost forty years after their arrival at 30 Grainger Street and having had quite enough of the silliness, of the hate blinded ones, constantly causing havoc, they moved out of town and into the Tyne Valley. Not wanting to waste their power on such pointless battles when much bigger and far more terrifying a foe was moving in on humanity faster than first imagined.

Many of us helped them build their fortress between Riding Mill and Corbridge, ‘Cyneberg Dalton’ as it is now known. It is a golden place, glittering and pulsing with power. It has risen higher than we first imagined but now there are nine dragons and along with a warrior and a mage for each of them, as well as numerous other folk to house, it needs to be relatively gargantuan.

I’d like to tell you that the ensuing two hundred years has quelled the fever and fury of those militant boys and their followers but I can’t. They have maintained pockets of squalid anger, ‘The Georgies’ they call themselves, deluded and, sadly, fighting the wrong fight. Along with the Dragons, my sisters and I; fellow warriors and battle mages all, must stand strong. Not just here in the north of England but all over Earth, as we ready ourselves for the real battle: To save humanity from that which has sought for millennia to perpetually enslave us.