fables before time
The hearth crackled and spat in front of Prospero as he sat on a pillow, surrounded by a bounty of dragon eggs. His mentors could pull visions from the smoke and licks of fire, but all Prospero saw in the heat were memories from the back of his mind. Try as he might, there was nothing he could pull that matched what he was told. The serpent that slept behind him was as enigmatic as ever, and the dragon that had lodged itself at the seat of the bed wasn’t helping matters. Even now, he could feel its eyes focused on his movements.
It wasn’t unwarranted. Surrounded by several clutches of eggs, he knew they would fetch a high price if he could just deliver them to a market. The scales of the dragon would make a fine lining for a pair of boots, and it would be a fitting payment to strip the creature after it had burned his calves through. Quetzalcoatl were a bit more volatile; they were dangerous, and simply couldn’t be sold alive. Their feathers fetched a high price, but their heads even more so. With the threat of blood magic tearing him alive at any moment, Prospero wasn’t keen on accompanying this one. Nonetheless, it had something that was his; Nestled among the eggs, he could see the black and white egg blending in with the others. Something inside it pulsed in tune with his own heart. He wanted nothing to do with it, but something like a chain connected them. It was only a matter of time before it hatched.
A growl made him turn from the flames. The dragon squinted its eyes and made a low hum. “The more you rest, the faster those legs will heal…Prospero.” Part of its voice was tinged with both delight and disgust. It was proud of what it had done, but handled his name like a dirty cloth.
“I don’t recall ever saying my name to you,” grunted the man. “Aren’t you the one who said I wasn’t the ‘real’ Prospero? A beast with no sense of self has no place judging what is real or not, and no right to call me anything.”
“I have a sense of self!” the dragon retorted. “My name is Firefall.”
Prospero felt his lips curl up at the simple name. “Naming a fire dragon after Fire? I thought the Quetzalcoatl were supposed to be clever.”
Firefall rumbled loudly and his Rider roused a little bit. The dragon fell quiet and waited for the movement of his Rider to stop—waited for the rhythmic breathing again—then shot a piercing gaze at Prospero. “It is the name I gave myself. It is far superior to the one who stole his name from fable.”
An old story, the tales of a magician that was cast to sea and left to die, the story of a man who learned forbidden arts and thrived despite the odds. It was a story he knew well—the tale of a being who never existed. It was not the name he was born with, but it was the name he was given. Prospero, the sorcerer that survived to conquer beasts. The whip at his belt was lined with the bones of a dragon’s tail; His head was adorned with its skull and fur; Even his clothes were fashioned out of the beast he had slain. It was one of many, and would not be the last. He did not choose the name, nor his parents, but he knew it was his. The name passed by his mentors was the one he kept, and the one whose spirit he upheld. “It is my own.”