A Short Story Of Flame and Craft

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The trees gained and lost their leaves time and time again, and with it was the blacksmith's assistant known throughout the land. He would make glass for many houses and villas; priests and lords alike came to him for his craft. Most didn't believe his tales of using a dragon's lair to forge his pieces; those who did dared not to venture near, for they feared his mystifying skills with the slender sword and gargantuan shield. So none challenged the dragon in her lair, and in return the assistant could craft beauty to his heart's content.

But the greed of man was never far away, and one day the blacksmith placed his second shield in front of the dragon as an offering.

"Are you to betray me?"

"I wish I could not, but I am only a peon, and all have been called to war. I am to be sent to the north, so I do not expect to return alive, but perhaps you can find my body once the wars of man end."

"I will not! Please, let me make you a shield and sword from my own breath! With them, you shall have my heat on the battlefield with you, and no mortal behind your shield shall fear the touch of death."

"Then, could I ask for a dozen of such armour? For my master, the blacksmith I once worked under, and his town goes as well, and it would be a fair gesture if I saved their lives, too."

"It is your skill with the rod that I breathe life into. Come: let us begin."

And so the dragon and the assistant worked hard for a fortnight, testing and whittling the sharpness of blades and the fortitude of shields. And, at last, they had a set rivaling the hordes of gold the dragon herself protected. With a cart in tow, the assistant came to his master's town, saying he bore gifts from the dragon, and as long as they stayed behind their shields, not even arrows could pierce them. Whether or not they believed, none had seen such armour in their lives, so they marched off into battle with the hopes of these magical shields and sparkling swords would do their jobs.

It seemed so, for neither arrows nor swords could pierce their faces, and the small town could hold their own against whoever their lord deemed fighting. It was not until a chance battle when the found their enemy had a magician of their own. Clothed in black and red, the mage wove rocks to life and set the ground ablaze. But the blacksmith and his assistant were much more flexible than the magician could fathom; riding her own creations, they crossed seas of fire, and pushed back the magician once more.

So at last, the lords who had led these troops into battle had come across their differences and settled them; swords were no longer required. Greed still held the hearts of men, and the assistant could only take his own sword and shield back to the dragon; hopefully, the dragon would not mind that much, for they could make more.

It was when he arrived back at the cave that he beheld a shocking sight: it was the fiery mage from the battlefield, standing between him and the dragon.

"So the rumours were true! The dragon's assistant, here at last!"

"Why are you here?"

"You! You single-handedly ruined my chances! That war, all that killing, was to be my chance! And you ended it! So I'll end you!"

Flames raged from the mage's staff, ravenging the assistant; he quickly held up his glass shield, but there was only so much he could do against the fires. But through the shield, he saw his chance: the mage's staff! It had to be the source of her power, so the assistant dashed through the fires and made one fell swoop at the staff; both shattered, sending pieces of metal and glass onto the dragon's gold.

"Please! No more!" The assistant tried his hardest to breathe, but the flames had seared him well; he didn't know if he could keep breathing, but he had to try. It was then that the mage picked up shards from the ground, mashing them into the assistant's chest; then, she pushed the assistant away, slashing the shards to his bones.

It was at this point that the dragon had come to her senses; furious at the mage, she swung her tail with all her might, skewering the mage through before flinging them into a nearby pillar. Quickly, the dragon clamboured over to the blacksmith's assistant, hoping she could do something to keep her maker of beauty alive, but she saw him reaching out to the mage, speaking once more:

"Why?"

"I had hoped," the mage spoke one last time, "that if I could kill enough, I could be accepted amongst men and their greed that I could never comprehend."

"Then you and I are one, for I only wished to make beauty for greed I could never understand." With his last breath, he put his hand into hers, and it was too late for the dragon that watched them: both had passed on, beyond the realm of all mortals.

In her grief, the dragon could only draw tears of pure gold, for in her youth she had been drawn to her gold in the hopes that men would gather round for her beauty and elegance; instead, they drew their swords, for they only wanted to have her wealth and cared not for her or her opulence. And these two in front of her, the one who cared and the one who took that person away from her, were both torn apart by the world of greed that lived outside.

So she ever so gently picked up the two bodies which held each other in the strong grip of death, and she blew her fiery breath upon them. And they did not burn but instead glistened like the sculptures all about her, and they became two more transfixed dancers in her hallowed halls of glass and gold.