The One Who Doesn't Fight

'You're an idiot, Glade!

'Coward!'

'Wuss!'

'Baby!'

'Deformed hatchling!'

The screams and jeers followed Glade as he hastened away from the Arena, sounding like a flock of angry crows. He didn't respond, nor did he look over his shoulder at them - either action would only spur the other hawkdragons on to chase him. The further he walked, the quieter the yells became. Sometimes the best thing was to simply walk away.

The insults didn't really bother Glade. He'd always thought, why should they? They were just words, sounds on the air - as insignificant as a leaf rustling in the wind. In his mind, he'd always found it silly that the others would throw rude remarks at him but never actually attack him. Hawkdragons were a proud race; no self-respecting hawkdragon would reduce themselves to the level of a playground bully by hitting and biting everyone when they didn't get their way. Fighting was saved for the Arenas, or for real disagreements.

As the shouts faded to nothing behind him, Glade found himself standing before an impressive sycamore tree. The rush of a bubbling brook could be heard not too far away. He lay down beneath the tree and began to preen his feathers, thinking back on the morning's events.

A fight had been going down in the Juvenile Arena, and it had sounded rough. Concerned for the youngsters' safety, he had approached the fighting ring, trying to see what was happening.

It had been a mistake. As soon as the onlookers noticed Glade standing there, they had completely turned their attention from the fight and started jeering at him instead. Name-calling, hissing, laughing - some even challenged him to battle. It seemed like every dragon in the crowd had recognised him and wanted his blood.

Realising that things could get nasty if he stuck around, Glade had smiled, waved and hurriedly departed the scene. All the hawkdragons had yelled at him as he left, but none had given pursuit.

Now, everything was peaceful again.

Glade rested his head on his forepaws and watched a shiny black beetle scuttle past his nose. This spot was always so tranquil. He didn't think anyone knew about it except for him and a gang of the local kids. It was usually quiet and full of interesting wildlife - a perfect spot to come and relax on a beautiful summer's day.

'Hey, Glade!' a rowdy voice shouted.

He raised his head to see a younger hawkdragon padding towards him. His name was Hunter, and he was one of the oldest juveniles of the gang that frequented this spot. Behind him hurried Heather and Reaper, two much younger dragons. All three of the juveniles wore an expression of open curiosity on their face.

'Hi, guys,' Glade welcomed them. 'Do your parents know you're here?'

The smaller ones nodded, but Hunter puffed out his feathery chest and said, 'No! The tell me that I mustn't talk to you, 'cause you're a 'bad influence' or something stupid. I don't agree, so I sneak out here by myself.'

Glade couldn't bring himself to reprimand the youngster; he seemed so pleased with himself.

'Are you gonna tell us a cool story like last time?' squeaked Heather, the youngest of the gang, a tiny fledgling whose voice had yet to achieve the lower tone of maturity. She bounded up to Glade and pounced on his tail like a cat.

'Sure, he replied. Settling himself more comfortably under the sycamore tree, he waited until the kids had finished jostling for good sitting spots around him. Then he began to talk. 'This is a story I don't think you've heard before. It's about two crowdragon brothers who just couldn't get along...'