Tide of Shadows and Other Stories by Aidan Moher Page A

or astraddle the broad shoulders of a knight.
    "It's not proper!" mumbled half the knights.
    "These legs are not a product of lazing about!" she would tell them, gazing down at her long, womanly figure. The hem of her dress caught up twigs and pebbles, burrs and nettles, but nothing deterred her from walking alongside the men.
    "But those legs must be heavenly under them skirts," said the other half of the knights, besotted and in love (or lust).
    It is on one such excursion, at the height of spring, as baby animals dance and sing in the high fields, that we find the true beginning of our story.

    Fáfnir was a dragon. He was large and his scales were red as smouldering coals. He could breathe fire and his talons tore through solid stone like it was soft cheese. His mind was sharp, his wit astounding. He was fearsome and frightening, fecund and facetious.
    Fáfnir lived on a mountain peak higher and broader than any other in the land and had piles of treasure that made other dragons jealous. By all rights, Fáfnir might have been considered the most successful dragon in the land, but, in truth, he was not. For, you see, a dragon, despite popular belief, does not measure success in gold or jewels or endless riches—though they sit upon piles of diamond and coin, it does not make them happy, it does not fill the hole in their heart. No, that hole can only be filled by the love or adoration of others.
    Fáfnir was very lonely.
    Of course, one cannot attract friends or lovers without those mountainous piles of treasure—emeralds and goblets, arkenstones and mirrors, gold-plated armour and diamond-studded swords, pearl necklaces, amber earrings, and gem-encrusted crowns. So, Fáfnir razed towns, pillaged kingdoms, and upended caravans like any good dragon, all in the name of making friends and luring lascivious lasses.
    However, life is never so just or easy as it sounds in a fairy tale. Try as he might to collect the greatest treasure hoard in the land, Fáfnir could not catch the eye of the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak. He never attacked her castle, but instead destroyed her enemies and picked on kingdoms smaller and weaker than her’s. If his jewels would not impress her, his courage and virility surely would!
    But no, instead, she was enthralled with a flower—so dainty and small.
    So he watched her as she ascended the mountain next door, with a melancholy longing in his serpentine eyes. Alongside her band of powerful knights (with easy smiles and irresistible physiques), she climbed to the peak to pick a single flower, once a month, with each full moon.
    "I SHALL TAKE HER!" he bellowed, and his furious voice sent thunder booming through the Kingdom of Flowerdumpling Peak. "SHE SHALL BE MY PARNASSUS!"
    He hatched a plan, and the next time she climbed the highest peak of the highest mountain in her mountainous kingdom, Fáfnir was waiting for her. The knights were beautiful and strong, but they were nothing in the wake of his flaming breath and rending claws. For each knight he killed, Fáfnir shed a single tear. For the Princess's sake, of course; certainly not for his own. Ahem.
    He took the Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak up in his talons and flew her away. Her screams were shrill, her thrashings weak and pathetic. She weighed no more than a lamb.
    "OH, JUST BE STILL, MY LOVE. DO YOUR FLOWERS SQUIRM SO WHEN YOU STEAL THEM FROM THEIR MOUNTAIN HOME?"
    Still, she wailed harder, her tears dropping like rain on her kingdom, stretched far below like a painting. They arrived at his lair, with its impressive collection of gold and jewels.
    Days passed. The Princess of Flowerdumpling Peak stopped crying, for which Fáfnir was grateful, but she was hardly the peachy companion he had hoped for. She was moody and demanding, petulant and dainty, and would not even eat the leg of the mutton he brought her (charred to a perfect crisp, might he add!). She was too slender, too soft, and much, much too boring.
    Oh, and the bloody