1d
A Fable of Ash and Echoes
In an age when kingdoms were still carved from river-mist and legend, there dwelt a dragon in the Valley of Mirrors — so called because every cry shouted there returned tenfold from the silver cliffs.
The dragon was not mighty, nor wicked, nor great in any particular way, but he believed he must be one or the other — for what was a dragon without terror or glory?
So each dawn, he climbed the highest crag and roared:
“Behold! I am Doom! I have leveled cities unseen, shattered heroes unremembered! Tremble!”
But no smoke left his throat. No flame stirred the wind.
Travelers paused at a distance, unsure whether to fear or pity him. When they offered tribute — cheese, coins, figs wrapped in leaves — he recoiled and cast himself into the dust, groaning:
“I deserve no honor! I am rusted fang! Molded wing! Were justice real, I’d be slain!”
And so none dared stay — not out of terror, but exhaustion.
⸻
The Wandering Beasts
One morning, three wandering beasts passed through the valley — a fox, a tortoise, and a pale horse whose eyes held more winters than the mountain peaks.
The dragon rushed to his crag, reared wide, and roared his usual dirge of grandeur and disgrace.
The fox yawned and said,
“If you are Doom, do doom. Elsewise, do hush.”
The tortoise added,
“To lie about greatness is pride. To lie about worthlessness is pride in costume.”
But the pale horse did not speak.
She merely regarded him with the kind of silence usually reserved for tombs.
And she walked on.
⸻
The Silence That Followed
The dragon waited for them to turn back — to call to him, to argue, to challenge or beg or comfort.
But no echo came, save his own breath.
And in that vast, humiliating quiet, for the first time in all his years, he did not know what to roar.
He sat upon the stone. He waited. He listened.
He heard:
• The wind moving through the grass like distant applause.
• The beetle scratching at bark.
• The hush of clouds passing overhead, indifferent.
And he realized:
All living things make noise simply because they are alive.
Only he demanded to be heard for it.
⸻
The Dawn of a Small Voice
The next day, the dragon climbed his crag again.
This time, he did not roar.
He said — quietly, as if confessing to the wind:
“I do not know what I am. But I am tired of declaring falsehoods. Whoever passes — stop if you wish. Walk if you must. I will burn nothing today.”
And for many days, none came.
But peace — long exiled — returned.
⸻
The First Visitor Who Stayed
At last, the tortoise returned, carrying moss in her shell.
She sat beside him without ceremony.
She asked no questions. He offered no proclamations.
They watched the sun descend behind the mirrors of the valley.
And for the first time, the dragon understood:
A voice need not be thunder to be heard.
And a creature need not be legend to be loved.
⸻
* Moral, Spoken Plainly At Last:
He who insists on announcing his nature will never be known.
But he who grows quiet enough to listen may finally become *
The End
In an age when kingdoms were still carved from river-mist and legend, there dwelt a dragon in the Valley of Mirrors — so called because every cry shouted there returned tenfold from the silver cliffs.
The dragon was not mighty, nor wicked, nor great in any particular way, but he believed he must be one or the other — for what was a dragon without terror or glory?
So each dawn, he climbed the highest crag and roared:
“Behold! I am Doom! I have leveled cities unseen, shattered heroes unremembered! Tremble!”
But no smoke left his throat. No flame stirred the wind.
Travelers paused at a distance, unsure whether to fear or pity him. When they offered tribute — cheese, coins, figs wrapped in leaves — he recoiled and cast himself into the dust, groaning:
“I deserve no honor! I am rusted fang! Molded wing! Were justice real, I’d be slain!”
And so none dared stay — not out of terror, but exhaustion.
⸻
The Wandering Beasts
One morning, three wandering beasts passed through the valley — a fox, a tortoise, and a pale horse whose eyes held more winters than the mountain peaks.
The dragon rushed to his crag, reared wide, and roared his usual dirge of grandeur and disgrace.
The fox yawned and said,
“If you are Doom, do doom. Elsewise, do hush.”
The tortoise added,
“To lie about greatness is pride. To lie about worthlessness is pride in costume.”
But the pale horse did not speak.
She merely regarded him with the kind of silence usually reserved for tombs.
And she walked on.
⸻
The Silence That Followed
The dragon waited for them to turn back — to call to him, to argue, to challenge or beg or comfort.
But no echo came, save his own breath.
And in that vast, humiliating quiet, for the first time in all his years, he did not know what to roar.
He sat upon the stone. He waited. He listened.
He heard:
• The wind moving through the grass like distant applause.
• The beetle scratching at bark.
• The hush of clouds passing overhead, indifferent.
And he realized:
All living things make noise simply because they are alive.
Only he demanded to be heard for it.
⸻
The Dawn of a Small Voice
The next day, the dragon climbed his crag again.
This time, he did not roar.
He said — quietly, as if confessing to the wind:
“I do not know what I am. But I am tired of declaring falsehoods. Whoever passes — stop if you wish. Walk if you must. I will burn nothing today.”
And for many days, none came.
But peace — long exiled — returned.
⸻
The First Visitor Who Stayed
At last, the tortoise returned, carrying moss in her shell.
She sat beside him without ceremony.
She asked no questions. He offered no proclamations.
They watched the sun descend behind the mirrors of the valley.
And for the first time, the dragon understood:
A voice need not be thunder to be heard.
And a creature need not be legend to be loved.
⸻
* Moral, Spoken Plainly At Last:
He who insists on announcing his nature will never be known.
But he who grows quiet enough to listen may finally become *
The End
