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Authors: Aidan Moher
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made love, and lay huffing and puffing at the end, limbs akimbo, bodies drained of strength but filled to brimming with shared satisfaction.
They were days of endless magic, and passed in a blur. The bitter prince felt his anger fade. "Who needs a wife when you have a dragon to whisk you away!" he cried from atop Fáfnir's back as they flew far above the clouds, free from the savages below.
The dragon shed his loneliness. The prince was not boring nor weak of arm. His voice was a dusky rumble—a fire burned in his breast. Together they could rule the world, and other dragons would cower in their wake. And, best of all, he hated all flowers; did not even know their names!
But all honeymoons must come to an end, and so this one did when Fáfnir announced to the Prince of Copperkettle Vale, "WE MUST NOW GO TO YOUR LAND TO BEGIN OUR GLORIOUS RULE."
"But my people will scream at the sight of your terrible might! They will fill you with arrows, quench you with all the waters of all the rivers in the vale!"
"THE ARROWS ARE BUT SMALL PRICKS, NO MORE HARMFUL THAN A MAYFLY OR MOSQUITO! THEY WILL NOT REACH ME WITH THE WATERS OF YOUR RIVERS, FOR WE SHALL SOAR FAR ABOVE THE LAND AND SHOW THEM THE GLORY THAT COMES FROM A PRINCE RIDING THE BACK OF A DRAGON!"
"They will not trust us. My father will set his best knights on you."
"AND I WILL DESTROY THEM LIKE I DESTROYED THOSE KNIGHTS HIGH ON PARNASSUS PEAK. THEY ARE NOTHING TO US. WE WILL BRING GLORY TO YOUR LAND; WE WILL CAPTURE KINGDOMS, BRING GOLD AND JEWELS; WE WILL SHOW YOUR KING JUST HOW STRONG HIS KINGDOM COULD BE. BY OUR STRENGTH WILL COPPERKETTLE VALE REIGN OVER THE WORLD."
"Ah, just," said the Prince of Copperkettle Vale. With no argument left, he leapt upon Fáfnir's back and they took to the sky, heading into the sunset, aiming straight and true for Copperkettle Vale.
The prince was not anxious about his father’s reaction, or that of his citizens, for Fáfnir was right; they would bring glory to the people. Rather, it was his mother whom he most worried about. She so wanted him to find a wife, but he had found a dragon instead. What would she think?
"True love conquers all," he’d tell her, but already, painted on the backs of his eyelids, he could see her frown, see her standing with her hands bunched on her rotund hips. He tried to sleep, but her screeches and howls filled his restless dreams, a draconian horror as terrible as the serpent on whose back he rode.
The blush of a waking sunrise blanketed the castle and met the Prince of Copperkettle Vale and Fáfnir upon their arrival. They settled in a courtyard amidst fountains bubbling, birds chirping, dogs barking, and bells tolling.
Guards surrounded them, crossbows drawn and iron spears raised, but did not shoot for fear of hitting their prince (no matter how they might grumble about him over cups of ale, he was their prince). An audience of castle-folk gathered—cooks and men-at-arms, dowagers and chambermaids, scullions and dukes, ladies-in-waiting and make-upped courtiers. The king was summoned, but it was the queen who arrived first.
"Mother," called the prince, still astride his dragon, "Rejoice! I found the love of my life."
Ignoring the dragon (love and social standing being more important than fear of serpents, you see), the queen shouted, "The Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak! Where is she! My new daughter, hurrah!"
"That old louse?" said the prince. "Stuck in a snowbank, I expect! Just where she belongs."
The audience gasped.
"Whatever do you mean?" cried the queen, a shadow of doubt on her plump face.
"I found love, mother! Just as you wanted. And he sits straddled between my legs!"
The audience gasped again—spear points dropped, crossbows unwound, gossipers whispered, children tittered, and maidens swooned. The queen herself fainted, tumbling to the cobblestones like a sack of potatoes.
"But sir!" cried his people. "He's a dragon!"
"But sir! He's a he!"
"But, but, but, but, but!" cried
They were days of endless magic, and passed in a blur. The bitter prince felt his anger fade. "Who needs a wife when you have a dragon to whisk you away!" he cried from atop Fáfnir's back as they flew far above the clouds, free from the savages below.
The dragon shed his loneliness. The prince was not boring nor weak of arm. His voice was a dusky rumble—a fire burned in his breast. Together they could rule the world, and other dragons would cower in their wake. And, best of all, he hated all flowers; did not even know their names!
But all honeymoons must come to an end, and so this one did when Fáfnir announced to the Prince of Copperkettle Vale, "WE MUST NOW GO TO YOUR LAND TO BEGIN OUR GLORIOUS RULE."
"But my people will scream at the sight of your terrible might! They will fill you with arrows, quench you with all the waters of all the rivers in the vale!"
"THE ARROWS ARE BUT SMALL PRICKS, NO MORE HARMFUL THAN A MAYFLY OR MOSQUITO! THEY WILL NOT REACH ME WITH THE WATERS OF YOUR RIVERS, FOR WE SHALL SOAR FAR ABOVE THE LAND AND SHOW THEM THE GLORY THAT COMES FROM A PRINCE RIDING THE BACK OF A DRAGON!"
"They will not trust us. My father will set his best knights on you."
"AND I WILL DESTROY THEM LIKE I DESTROYED THOSE KNIGHTS HIGH ON PARNASSUS PEAK. THEY ARE NOTHING TO US. WE WILL BRING GLORY TO YOUR LAND; WE WILL CAPTURE KINGDOMS, BRING GOLD AND JEWELS; WE WILL SHOW YOUR KING JUST HOW STRONG HIS KINGDOM COULD BE. BY OUR STRENGTH WILL COPPERKETTLE VALE REIGN OVER THE WORLD."
"Ah, just," said the Prince of Copperkettle Vale. With no argument left, he leapt upon Fáfnir's back and they took to the sky, heading into the sunset, aiming straight and true for Copperkettle Vale.
The prince was not anxious about his father’s reaction, or that of his citizens, for Fáfnir was right; they would bring glory to the people. Rather, it was his mother whom he most worried about. She so wanted him to find a wife, but he had found a dragon instead. What would she think?
"True love conquers all," he’d tell her, but already, painted on the backs of his eyelids, he could see her frown, see her standing with her hands bunched on her rotund hips. He tried to sleep, but her screeches and howls filled his restless dreams, a draconian horror as terrible as the serpent on whose back he rode.
The blush of a waking sunrise blanketed the castle and met the Prince of Copperkettle Vale and Fáfnir upon their arrival. They settled in a courtyard amidst fountains bubbling, birds chirping, dogs barking, and bells tolling.
Guards surrounded them, crossbows drawn and iron spears raised, but did not shoot for fear of hitting their prince (no matter how they might grumble about him over cups of ale, he was their prince). An audience of castle-folk gathered—cooks and men-at-arms, dowagers and chambermaids, scullions and dukes, ladies-in-waiting and make-upped courtiers. The king was summoned, but it was the queen who arrived first.
"Mother," called the prince, still astride his dragon, "Rejoice! I found the love of my life."
Ignoring the dragon (love and social standing being more important than fear of serpents, you see), the queen shouted, "The Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak! Where is she! My new daughter, hurrah!"
"That old louse?" said the prince. "Stuck in a snowbank, I expect! Just where she belongs."
The audience gasped.
"Whatever do you mean?" cried the queen, a shadow of doubt on her plump face.
"I found love, mother! Just as you wanted. And he sits straddled between my legs!"
The audience gasped again—spear points dropped, crossbows unwound, gossipers whispered, children tittered, and maidens swooned. The queen herself fainted, tumbling to the cobblestones like a sack of potatoes.
"But sir!" cried his people. "He's a dragon!"
"But sir! He's a he!"
"But, but, but, but, but!" cried
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