It is cold and dark on the mountain. Snow is deep beneath me and falls gently around me. A thick blanket of white flakes also covers me, almost as thick as the covering of snow on the ground. The cold wind has frozen me; I have not moved for ages. I no longer have any reason, too. It was much better that I stay a part of this mountain, to fall into a deep sleep. I have no more use for my wings, I have nowhere to go. I no longer need my talons; I have nothing left to fight. My fangs are hidden, and my mighty roars have ceased. There is no one who will hear them. My eyes are dark as they stare down over the mountain at a massive city below. I can see the lights in the growing darkness of the night. I assume the people were celebrating something, but it did not concern me. Not anymore.

There was a time when they of the city would have celebrations for me. They would come and visit me on my mountain. They would sing and dance, eat and drink, to show their thanks to me, their protector, for taking care of them. For defending them from those would have invaded, who would have destroyed them. I had brought them rain in droughts and famines, I had blessed them with luck, led them to victory in battles and wars. How warm and sunny my mountain had been then. But now, they had forgotten me, left me buried in the snow on this cold, dark mountain.

They hadn’t all forgotten me at once, no. It was gradually, oh so gradually. They would thank me over their shoulders as they left the dances and the feasts. Then they had begun to stay away from the mountain entirely. The stories they told of me changed. Instead of a kind and fierce protector, they gradually portrayed me as a blood thirsty beast, waiting to come down and kill them all. They took credit for our victories, they said they didn’t need me anymore. These tales saddened me, and I retreated here, to the top of my mountain. I no longer hear of them calling me blood thirsty, nor a beast, but now it is almost worse.

They have forgotten me.

Or at least, they have forgotten who I am. They say that I am merely legend, a tale to raise one’s spirit’s before battle, or to pray for luck or protection. The celebrations they have are for my memory, even though I never left.

So I sit among the stones, almost hoping, that one day I will completely become a stone myself, and they will have their wish. I will be gone, a legend. Even though I can see the darkness coming toward them, the enemies that lie in wait. The famines that are coming, the cold winter seasons that follow. I wish that I could protect them, but alas, they do not want my help. So I wished to become the stone, before I must be forced to watch such a terrible scene.

I was pulled from my thoughts by my sensing of someone nearby. They were coming up the mountain … coming toward me.

I dismissed it at first. Many people climbed this mountain to hunt or to reach the nearby stream, but they never came up this high. I was surprised when not one, but two people came into view, a man and a young boy dressed in simple farmer’s clothes. They reverently climbed up the steps that led to me, each holding a dark paper lantern in their hands.

“This is the dragon, Papa?” the boy asked in quiet awe.

The man nodded. “Yes. This is where he sleeps.”

The boy carefully came toward me, staring at my face. I’m not sure what he could see beneath all the snow and ice that had taken hold of me. He studied me carefully, his head cocked to one side and his face twisted in thought. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold, and his breath appeared as puffs of white steam.

“Papa,” the boy said thoughtfully. “Why do people say he’s mean? He looks like a very nice dragon to me.”

I smiled a little to myself. So he thought I looked kind, hm? That was a first. Most people saw my fangs and claws and called me fierce or frightening. But I suppose that was the pure heart of a child. They always seem to be able to find the good in anything.

“People have forgotten what the dragon was like,” the man said gently.

“They see how big he is, with his fangs and claws and think that he must be frightening and sent to punish them.” He knelt and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “But his claws and fangs are to protect us. And he is big, but he holds his head close to the ground to listen to us. He is a very wise and kind dragon.”

“Then why did he go away?” the boy asked simply. The father’s answer surprised me.

“Because people thought we didn’t need him anymore. But he is very important to us. That is why I tell you and your sister stories about the Dragon. So that you will know who he really is.”

The man struck a match and lit both his and the boy’s lanterns. They held them for a minute, looking at their warm glow, then they both bowed to me and released the lanterns into the sky. I hadn’t had anyone give me a lantern in a long time, much less two lanterns. That was what this festival used to be for, many, many years ago. I felt as though the lanterns had warmed me a little, watching them fade into the dark sky.

The man patted the boys head. “Come now,” he said softly. “We must go home now.” The boy nodded and turned to go with his father, but stopped and turned back to look at me. Then he stepped up close to me and reached up to put his hand on my nose.

“Thank you for protecting us, kind Dragon,” he said softly, then ran back to his father. A dim light began to glow in my eyes and for the first time in many, many years …

I began to feel alive again.