Alexander’s vision was blurry; dust and something else were in his eyes. He heard the blaring and the loud sound of the village bell; it hurt his ears, but he knew it meant danger. His movements felt stiff and out of tune, out of sync. Trying to move his right arm felt heavy, like he was trying to move three hundred thousand pounds. He heard a faint voice call out his name; it was a familiar and dainty Scottish accent, “Alexander, you have to get up! You have to slay the dragon!” She pleaded. That’s when Alexander looked over to his right arm. A giant red foot with three claws weighed it down. It felt rough against his broken armor and his skin. Its claws sank so hard into him that it was leaving indents and bruises. His vision cleared up as he started looking around his village. He wanted to hurt everyone, someone. The place he fought so hard to protect, three decades of slaving away to make sure the people were fed, warm, and had a place to stay, was easily destroyed in three Mississippis. Alexander remembered how the head guard always told the rest of the knights that a war with a dragon is something they should never participate in. The Queen’s castle was in ruins; the biggest lookout pillar had just come tumbling down. There were thousands of charred and regretful corpses lying on the ground; he knew how much they loved life. The crops were scattered everywhere, while screaming quickly drowned out the sound of the bell. The entire village was bleeding with sorrow; a wound like that was bigger than any wound a dragon could give him.
These were his people, his family, and they were all easily destroyed by a dragon? Ridiculous. He resented himself for being weak and defenseless, for proving everyone right. He heard another voice cry out to him, an annoying one, but familiar nonetheless. “Alexander, get the hell up! What’re you doing?” He hated the feeling of recognizing his loved ones’ voices but not being able to put a face to them. Alexander could feel rage flowing through his veins as he looked up at the creature that destroyed his life. What met his eyes was what he saw in legends drawn onto tea-stained paper. A red, fiery dragon looked back at Alexander, sharing the same rage in its eyes. It had two heads; the head that could breathe fire was having a staring contest with him. The other head had a breath of smoke, finishing the flame the other head couldn’t. Alexander raced for his sword with his left arm and his free arm, and held it up to the dragon’s claw that was holding down his right. But when Alexander tried to inflict harm on the dragon, he couldn’t do it. He decided that he didn’t need his right arm anyway, so he cut it clean off. Well, that’s what he told himself to make the cut easier to deal with, but in reality, his arm came off as if he were peeling off stitches. It was a slow and painful process. When he was halfway through, he started wondering how much he hated himself. It was a bad idea; it was one that slowed down his battle, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill a dragon.
He knew the aggressive history between his kingdom and their kind, specifically whenever a knight found the chance to slaughter one. Like how they’d cut off the dragon tails for victory, then use them as wine glasses for celebrations. Or how they’d grind their rough skin off for armor. Therefore, Alexander knew that killing wasn’t going to solve anything. At the end of the day, what separates an animal, no, another living being, from humans? Other than how they look, how they breathe, how they choose to hunt for food and care for their young, what makes a dragon and a human so different? Alexander saw himself in the angry eyes of the dragon. Alexander stood up robotically, and he held his sword up high. The second head of the dragon turned to the current situation, ready to defend the first head. But Alexander only ended up stabbing himself, right in the heart. He stabbed himself knowing he’d die a coward, and that was okay. The dragons weren’t enemies; they were creatures misunderstood and hated by time itself. Alexander would rather die as the knight who was a noble that turned out weak, than to have the reputation that dragons have. Deep down, he knew that in this world, magic could bring back any dead person. There was no point in killing a dragon. As Alexander took his last breath, nobody but his thoughts came to aid. The dragon deserved to live more than a knight who’s lived for far too long, and that was okay.