Not Ophelia

The dragon knew that something was wrong. Hordes of small people in shiny armor were swiftly approaching her cave. What had Ophelia done wrong? She always killed the pesky creatures that invaded their kingdom, and the humans showed her great gratitude.

Back at his home, the boy stared at the wreckage. Could Ophelia really have done this? It didn’t seem like her, the sweet and brave dragon who had, just last week, saved their village from a hungry werewolf. Something caught the boy’s eye. A clue. He dug through a pile of broken china and pulled a clump of vibrant red feathers.

These were feathers of a griffin. Ophelia didn’t have feathers. The boy clutched the feathers tightly and raced past the village women, who were busily searching for surviving treasure. His mother called out, “Joseph, where are you going?”

The boy didn’t respond. He scrambled up the rocky cliff face toward the king’s soldiers.

Ophelia was surrounded, her wings raised. The green-scaled dragon had a terrified look on her face. The men were slowly advancing oh her, their swords glinting in the sunlight.

“You destroyed our homes,” one man yelled.

“Wait!” The soldiers turned to see who had called in that tiny voice. Joseph stood boldly. “It was a pack of griffins, not Ophelia! I found these in the rubble!” He waved the feathers around.

The soldiers gasped. Their leader stepped forward. This man had a scar on the calloused hand he held out. “Let me see those, son.”

Joseph gently placed the feathers in the commander’s grasp. The young boy held his breath while the man examined the feathers.

“These are fresh, my men. Leave our trusty dragon. We were wrong to assume that Ophelia was responsible. She has saved us many times; why would she turn her back on us now?” the commander said.

The soldiers murmured in agreement and headed back down the hill. Each bowed deeply to Ophelia.

Joseph had saved her. Ophelia nuzzled the boy fondly. He beamed. The dragon lumbered after Joseph and they began to rebuild . . . together.