A dragon’s snore is much like its roar; it was a low and rumbling affair, echoing and reverberating throughout the cavern.
Dragons were thought to be god-like beings, powerful enough to split continents in two or destroy entire mountainscapes. But they slept and ate like any other being, like you or I. Why, they even died, after a fashion.
And what were the chances that a man in full body armor, with a lance in hand, would be creeping ever closer to this giant beast’s slumbering form? Quite good, in fact.
I’m sure you’ve heard of it before, or something similar, in another story; the slumbering dragon and the mortal man destined to slay it, or failing that, best it in some other way.
But that’s not how the story will go today.
“You there! Dragon! Awaken!” The lancer poked at the dragon’s side with his lance.
Mildly aware of this sensation, the dragon stopped his snoring, and then hearing the shout that was still quieter than his snore, the dragon half lifted its lids, and turned its gargantuan neck in the direction of the sensation and sound.
Seeing as it was only one man, the dragon thought nothing more of it and rested its head back down, and fell back to sleep, and began its raucous snore once again.
Feeling that he was being belittled from the sight, the lancer brought back his lance and, instead of a gentle poke, thrust forward his mighty lance.
The dragon yelped and howled and turned its body away from the pain until it was on its back. Fully awake now, the dragon looked on at the lancer with eyes of burning menace. He shouted, his voice low and manner foreboding, “For what reason do you disturb my slumber, human?”
Mind you, the threatening effect was diminished from the beast being on its back; a universal symbol for submission in the animal kingdom, as I’m sure you’re aware.
Though the lancer seemed to not be deterred one bit. He matched his tone with the dragon’s, “You have terrorized these lands for long enough. I have come to stop you.”
The dragon, realizing his position, rolled to his left, away from the lancer, so that he was on all fours. He turned his body toward the lancer and said, “Ha! And how does a single human intend to fell I, a dragon, a god among all creatures!”
“I don’t intend to slay you, no, I have only come to speak.”
“Ha! For that you don your armor and blade?”
“No, for my protection, and for waking you up.”
The dragon pondered this for a moment and came to the conclusion the lancer was telling the truth.
“Hm, and what is it you intend to say?”
“Why! Why do you sow so much discord and destruction? Why do you lay fire where crops once grew? Why do you make all around know and fear you, mighty Fafnir?”
“Why? What matter is there in why? I do it because I can, because I relish the screams, because I love the fire.”
“Is that truly all? The only reason?”
Fafnir made no reply, only silence and a continued glare.
“I see, then you leave me no choice, I shall slay you.” Siegfried held his lance with both arms and drew them back, like an archer pulling the string of a bow, his body became taught.
Sensing the lancer’s resolution from the aura of his posture, the Fafnir too readied itself, and in that moment, Siegfried knew, he would die in this place to this dragon.
The knight, ashen and blood drenched laid against a rock. His breathing was heavy, sweat dripping from his hairline.
Fafnir towered over him, peering at the dying man from a distance, wondering what reason there was in challenging him, a being of obvious overwhelming force.
Looking straight ahead, the man said, “I’m sorry.”
The dragon inched closer, “For what?”
He replied with derision in his voice, “Not you.” And I thought I could win. What a fool I was. They’ll worry for me. What a bastard I am, throwing away my life for the sake of others, when my family, when they’ll suffer the most from my failure. What a bastard I am…
Siegfried turned to the dragon’s head, “You there, I’m dying right?”
Fafnir looked on at the man with his magic eyes, sensing the dissipating mana, “Yes, you are.” No pity or emotion was in his voice, only cold fact.
With a sigh of resignation, he said, “Good, then I curse you.”
“What?”
“From this moment forth, you will no longer be a dragon. You will walk the earth on two feet as I do.”
“Hahahaha, do you think yourself a wizard, boy?” scorned the dragon. But then Fafnir felt something deep within him - the disappearance, the destruction of his core, his very being. A light shone from him, originating from the tips of his claws and creeping toward the rest of his body. His eyes widened in shock. “What is this?!”
The knight laughed with mirthless glee, “No, I am not a wizard, but my hate is very real. You should not underestimate an existence’s animosity, though much of it is directed toward myself. I am dying, so I cannot repay it. So it’ll have to be you.” Siegfried then recalled, “There was always a condition in those stories - “
Fafnir, attempting to interrupt the incantation, breathed a torrent of flame at him. But just as it would reach him, a purple, ethereal ball of light surrounded the front of the man, warding off the fire. In this world of magic and monsters, the most powerful of spells were commanded by the simplest of heartfelt wishes.
Siegfried continued, “If you wish to regain your true form, you must find value in humanity.”
And with that, the man exhaled his last breath, and Fafnir’s transformation continued. The light crept ever onward, enveloping him, and just as it did, the light dispersed into particles. But below that light, there was no longer a dragon, no, only a naked man.
Fafnir’s mind was heavy, as if waterlogged, he could not think or process his surroundings or his being. Simply breathing was a difficulty, so he gasped repeatedly. Like a newborn baby, he had no control over his extremities, flopping around or not moving at all. It took him time to relax, and more time to process it, and even more to accept it.
This should not be. This should not be, was all that he could think.
He simply lay there, pondering his existence for a time, until his stomach growled. Now this was a sensation he was familiar with, he knew this meant he was hungry.
Slowly, he extended his arms and legs, and attempted to mimic the way in which he saw humans move on their hind legs. It was not easy. His arms and legs felt weak, or his body felt heavy, Fafnir could not decide which.
And once he stood, he realized something else, he was cold.
He turned his head toward the knight’s dead form.
Knowing what had to be done, Fafnir stepped toward the body and examined it. It was dirty but intact, and the armor’s design was black with many layers and upward spiked flares, much like his original form.
Was it modeled after me?
His hands scanned around it, looking for some sort of release mechanism. Finding them, he unarmored the man, then unclothed him.
He tried putting the clothes on, and while they did fit, they were incredibly uncomfortable, still damp and crusty with blood. Hoping the dirt and grime would naturally fall off of him when he dived into a large enough water source, Fafnir resolved to do just that.
And so he made for the exit to the cave. Surrounding him was a forest, the time was noon, and the season mid spring. He knew the general lay of the land, having flown over it several times, but the specificities, the time it would take for him to get here to another place, these were things he was unaware of.
Fafnir headed for the direction he recalled there being a river, wading through the uneven terrain of the forest floor with its hillocks and fallen branches.
I need to clean and feed myself, but what after? The curse must be undone. The once dragon thought for a moment. Surely, one of my brothers or sisters must know of a magic to cure me. Yes, I recall the green and blue ones being fond of humanity and magic. In each major country lived four dragons, one for each major direction; north, east, south, and west. Fafnir was the black dragon of the west. If none of my country dragon know of a way, then I’ll travel to another, and if that doesn’t work, then I’ll find a wizard’s tower or witch’s hovel. Though Fafnir had heard of the inherent madness of humans who sought arcane knowledge, he didn’t care if that meant returning to his original form.
At least I didn’t get turned into a frog. Humans have much more agency. But a dragon to a human, it may as well be the same.
Hours passed as Fafnir thought of his future prospects while trudging through forestland.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
And right as he was beginning to suspect that he took the wrong way, he sensed movement from the snap of twigs and something brushing against faraway ferns. And then there were the eyes, something was watching him, but it wasn’t the idle fascination of just any forest creature, no, these eyes were patient; predatory.
Outrage flared in Fafnir’s mind, you dare hunt me!? The one who stands atop all?! But then he recalled his current position. And he felt something very new: fear.
His fear and pride fought for moments that felt like minutes. Pride, being the more familiar, and thus safer of the emotions, eventually won out.
The once dragon spun his body so that he could see the thing seeing him. It was much smaller than he had imagined, a tusked boar that stood only half as tall as him. But Fafnir knew that, in this moment, if he underestimated his enemy, it would be a fatal mistake.
The boar was taken aback, backing away from the man, even if only an inch (a few centimeters). Most prey ran when they noticed him. But this one didn’t, it faced him. However, that didn’t change the fact that the boar was the king of this jungle. The boar had fought and hunted all its life here. For it to give up and run from some no name newcomer - it was a ridiculous idea.
The boar stamped its hindleg, revving himself up, and charged.
Fafnir’s head darted left and right, suddenly aware of how important his surroundings were. At his left was a mound, and to his right was more level ground.
He threw his body to the right, but the motion was too late, causing the boar to clip his lower left leg. The once dragon had only recently gotten used to the motion of bipedal movement; asking for quick 90 degree turn was far too much.
Because of the hit, Fafnir wasn’t nearly as far as he’d hoped to be by the end of his jump, allowing the boar to turn and lung at his foot.
All of this happened in the span of a few seconds, so there wasn’t enough time for the once dragon to raise himself and get his bearings to pull away or kick at the boar before being bitten.
Once the boar got its grip, it began shaking its head in an attempt to break apart Fafnir’s foot.
However, on Fafnir’s end, other than some rough shaking of the foot and the earlier momentary pain of the charge, he was completely fine. And so, it was with relative calm that he turned his upper body upward and began kicking at the boar’s face with his free leg.
This seemed to only enrage the boar, causing it to shake and bite down harder. Fafnir began to feel the armor compress, and panic finally struck him. He stamped harder, but to no avail.
His head darted left and right again, looking for something, and there it was, right beside him, Siegfried’s lance; he had forgotten.
He picked up the lance and lunged it downward. He missed. And so he did it again, and again he missed. The armor compressed more, causing Fafnir’s panic to increase with it.
Sweat drenched and gasping for air, he lunged downward once more, right in the boar’s eye.
It screamed and squealed in pain, trying to back away from the source of its suffering, but Fafnir would not allow it. He had not driven it deep enough to kill, only enough to wound, he knew that.
If I don’t take this chance, there may be no other.
He repositioned his arms so they were lower on the lance, and in the seconds of the boar’s recoil, he lunged forward again, using his entire upper body and his now free legs in the effort.
I’ll drive it through its entire body!
While it may not have done so, it was enough to go through the eye and then head, killing it.
In that motion, a fountain of blood had spurt onto Fafnir. Now the armor and clothes were once again dirtied by blood and sweat. Though Fafnir didn’t notice. His head was still high on adrenaline and lack of oxygen, his body still trying to circulate more with rapid breaths.
“I - I did it…” In that moment, he simply rested, allowing the peace and exultation of victory wash over him; a feeling he had never felt before.
And then he caught himself, “Of course I did it!” He stood up with spear in hand, stepping on the side of the boar rightfully, “This is how it should be! Me on top of the food chain, lord of all and any who dare challenge me!” But then he caught himself again, boasting so highly for killing a creature that he would have never even noticed in his prior life. Ah, how far I’ve fallen.
And with that, a strong wind whipped by, seeping in through the openings of the armor, and Fafnir again realized how cold he was; this time much more so with the wet of sweat surrounding him. And then his stomach growled in pain, realizing again how hungry he was. He had never been so hungry before, or for so long.
Head down in despair, he thought, Ah, how far I’ve fallen.
With his head down, he saw one of the cures to his ails. Fafnir threw aside his spear, took off his helmet, and threw that aside as well. He then crouched beside the boar and bit into its side.
Hm, with teeth still gnawing, he thought, harder than I thought it would be.
After a couple more moments of this, he realized it would not work, so he ceased and began brainstorming. After a glint of realization flashed in his eyes, Fafnir grabbed his spear and sliced the boar open, releasing a copious amount of steam.
Seeing some meat, he bit once more, though no difference was made from before; his teeth could still not rend anything.
Fafnir pulled back, took off his gauntlets and gloves, and began feeling around his teeth.
“Useless things, only a couple sharp ones, and even those aren’t all that sharp. How are humans supposed to eat? What do they eat?”
What the once dragon knew of human living was few and sparse. Most all of what he knew of them came from tales of his Green brother, Orthir; the sort that wandered among them. But stories rarely specified what they ate, and when they did, even fewer told of how that food came to be. It simply appeared.
“Fire! They cook food with fire! Yes, the band of heroes are always gathered around those for stew… what’s stew? Meat! I can still cook meat.” Fafnir recalled how he had often seen goblins and others of their ilk roasting things over a fire. “Hm…”
When he realized he didn’t know how to make a fire, the once dragon gathered his things and continued on his way.
Fruits. Fruits grow on trees and bushes. I can eat those. Alighted with the concept of food that literally grew on trees, Fafnir’s steps became much lighter. And with one thought gone, came space for another, why am I so soggy?
Begrudgingly, he took off his clothes and armor and examined them, noticing concentrated wet spots on the clothes. He touched himself where the spots were. Looking at his armpit, he thought, Is that stuff coming out of me?
The once dragon decided to lay out his clothes for a time to allow them to dry off, and in doing so, dozed off for half an hour.
When he awoke, he stood up to get his stuff, but once he put weight on his right foot, soreness assailed his entire leg.
“Agh!” Shocked by the pain, he jumped to the other foot, only for a far greater pain to meet him, causing him to fall on his bottom. “What the hell is this!?”
Fafnir darted his eyes around his legs for any visible wound, but there was none. “Wait.” And then he saw a red area on his left leg, right where the boar had tackled him, early signs of a bruise. His eyes squinted in focus, and like a fool, he touched it, and of course the pain he received was multiplied 10 fold compared to earlier. “Ahhh!”
Slower this time, in complete bafflement, he said, “What the hell is this?”
Feeling that whatever it was was far beyond him, and pretty sure he wasn’t dying, he clothed and armored himself and continued on his way, eyes searching for any colorful fruit or berries.
And he did find some - nice blue ones. The once dragon grabbed a good handful and shoved them into his mouth, munching ravenously.
Feeling refreshed from the moisture of the berries, and his filled stomach, he had a broad grin as he sauntered further.
Though it did not last long, soon his head began spinning, or to him, the world, and his stomach ached with a different kind of pain than hunger; he was learning many new pains today.
Clutching his stomach, he fell through a couple of bushes, into a gravel clearing, and in front of it, a flowing river.
Fafnir knelt to the ground, raised up his helmet, and puked out all of the berries. Now excessively dehydrated, confused, hungry, and physically exhausted, it wouldn’t be too far of a stretch to say that he was in fact dying.
Water. Water. Water, was the thought that repeated. The once dragon ambled on knees and hands toward the river. But just as he was about to drink from it, he fainted on the bank.
Across the river, a young woman doing laundry saw all of this, her mouth agape.