Writing Prompt VI

This was in response to another writing prompt on r/WritingPrompts:

An agoraphobic princess is sick and tired of knights breaking into her tower and trying to slay her emotional support dragon.

I shouldn’t have to do this.

This is manual labour, commoner’s work, blast it! What do I know about using a crowbar and excavation rods? I have more important work to do, like slaying – bloody – dragons!

That should do it. Now what? Why didn’t father make those bloody churls accompany me, so they could do this donkey-work? Rights of the Commons, hah! If he really cared about the commoners that much, why didn’t he go live in a monastery, and become one of them? Then Giles could be Lord Tallyrand, and I’d be the heir! For a change. Until he had a son, of course.

Right… that stone came out very – easily. Almost as if it had been moved before. That’s… not encouraging. Now what’s this? 

Who boards up a stone wall? And it looks like it was done from the inside, too. Stupid – inexplicable – churls, repairing… oh! They repaired it from the inside, because it had been moved before. Not good. Phew, this is heavy going, doing manual labour in plate mail. No matter. I am sworn to slay the dragon and rescue the princess, and must do or die. A man is only as good as his word.

That’s that for the carpentry. They must have heard the noise, no sense in stealth. This looks like a passage: no space for the greatsword; Poleaxe and bastard-sword. Onward! Visor down, idiot, in case of flame. 

Stairs… up. And up… up again. Dash it, this is a bit thick, what? Where the devil is that dragon? God’s blood! It must have been behind me! But moving away. Give chase! I fear no traps. I am girt with steel, by St George!

Up, and up some more. Oh, I am winded, lathered with sweat under plate mail. We must be nearly at the top of the tower!

Hark… I hear a maiden’s voice. It must be the Lady Morag. She sounds beautiful! But wait! That inhuman sound! The drake is within! She may be in danger! Poleaxe versus door… poleaxe wins! ‘HAVE AT YOU, FOUL WORM!’

‘Oh…’ 

Saints and angels, she is beautiful! But why does she cling to the monster? If monster it be, ‘tis wondrous fair! And it guards her like a mother hen, even as she holds it.

‘Please, my lord, hurt not my drake. She is here for my comfort, she only eats stoats and rats!’ there are tears in her eyes.

How could I do any harm to a lady as fair as this? Her hair so fair, ‘tis almost white, her eyes of forest green. My arms, suddenly weak, lower my axe. I go down on one knee, to show my good intentions.

‘Forgive me, my lady. I thought only for your rescue.’

‘I am not held against my will, my lord. I am sore distressed by the world and its tumult. I desire only to dwell in peace and seclusion, and the drake is a comfort to me.’

I am amazed. ‘What manner of beast is it? I had heard it was a monster, and desired to prove myself against it.’

The maiden sobs and shakes. Her tears cut my heart. ‘Knights are ever coming to kill my Sheelagh! But she is all I have in the world!’

I drop the axe and come closer, going down on both knees. I feel like the monster, now. ‘I am sorry, my lady.’ There must be something in my eyes, smoke perhaps. ‘I promise, on my honour, I shall never harm your… Sheelagh?’

‘Thank you, my lord. You are a noble knight.’ We are now very close. Our eyes meet. I know, deep down, I shall never leave her. I take her white hand in mine. ‘I am Sir Tormund, Viscount Tallyrand.’

The drake makes a chuttering sound. She blushes, very prettily. ‘I am Lady Morag, Recluse of the Crag.’

‘Might I visit again, my lady?’ I must bring men to repair her tower.

‘Please do, my lord. And soon.’