a sequel to this story
“The end of a matter is better than its beginning, and patience is better than pride.”
Where I have gone, so he has always followed. No matter who turned on us, who turned on me, he was there, ever waiting, ever patient. Now, in the hour of my most dire need, he too turns his back upon me. The betrayal bubbles in my chest like molten steel of the forge, and I feel heat clouding my vision, blurring the spectre of that whom I once loved before me.
He places his hand against my cheek; it is cool to the touch against the warmth of my skin, but the fire inside my blood offers no temperance to my betrayal.
“What love have I for a beast who cannot love me in return?” He asks of me, his voice soft yet still full of scorn. How dare he? After all we have been through, all we have shared, and he has the audacity to call me a beast incapable of love? I want not to hear his excuses. I do not need him!
“I have no need for one such as you, who would mind me as a keeper! I am all I need within myself! Begone!” I shout, my temper flaring in my chest, like a fire which cannot be doused. I spare him not a second glance; if he should do away with me so swiftly, then I shall do the same with him. If he is to cast his lot with those who have stood in our path, then so be it. I do not even look as he turns and departs from me his presence.
Night after night I move alone in the shadow. With Patience left behind, no need have I to be hindered by love or want of it. Fell voices whisper to me of pressing onward, upward, above the rest; that those who stood in my way would in the end kneel before me. They whispered of revenge for my betrayal, and all for a small price.
Fire. I devoured and destroyed all that stood in my path. You cannot temper flames that are fanned as greatly as mine own, and all that tried were scattered like ash to the wind. I am great, and terrible; my armor is impenetrable, and my wings are as a firestorm. There was no price too great for me and mine to even the score against all who had slighted me.
Duty fell first, his counsel and his pressure to do “what is right” (who is he to tell me what is right?) holding no candle to my own wildfire, and he was swept aside with a lashing of my tail what was forged in steel. There is no room for duty in me, as the only duty I serve is the interests of mine.
Loyalty had no legs to stand upon; no claim she could make of being loyal to me. Though she came the closest to ruining me. Her blade was sharp and painful against my cheek, leaving a thin line of scar against the scales of my face. But, even the craftsmanship she thought so highly of was fell to my greatness, and the dagger shattered in her hands, and she went away.
Wisdom was the last of the leaders to fall, and the meekest of them to do so. He stands in front of me as if unafraid, and a fool he is. It takes only one breath bridled with flame to see him gone.
I laugh as I see men and mice scatter before me and my tidings. With glee do I partake in a flight to the skies, so I can see all that lies before me. Yet, I see something that forces my attention to it.
Below does a figure step forward, his silver plate appearing golden as it reflects the firelight around it. His stance is proud and his garments prouder; a blue plume from his helm matching the cloak he wears that is like midnight dotted by stars. A fool he is to approach alone, and my laughter magnifies like the roar of the blaze below.
“And who might this fool be, to approach me alone? Can one truly be so arrogant as to temper that which cannot be?”
In spite the figure remains silent, and I scoff to myself - how bold, how brash, how audacious. How foolish he would be to meet his doom in silence. Yet, as he raises his bow and nocks his arrow, there is something that draws my attention closer. A ring bore on his right hand. A ring set with a fire opal. It is Patience.
“PATIENCE!” I roar in my betrayal - that he should so dare to be the one to take me down; that he think himself greater than I, when once we were equals. How dare he? How dare he? Does he think that I would be stopped so easily? That a single arrow of his will be enough to pierce the hide that cannot be so; that he in his once-was love for me can overtake that which I am and always have been?
I am struck.
I am cold.
I am falling.
Where once the blaze of love and anger roared within my ears I now hear nothing save the wind as I fall, fall, fall. I see scales that fall off of me in my descent; wings that burn away from the speed and the heat of it. I am not the beast, beast, beast. The wind is cruel in its silence, but crueler still is that which I hear below; the crashing of waves as the ocean comes ever closer.
Am I villain, or victim? Can I be neither or both?
