Because That’s What Dragons Do
Garble was an infant.
He held a sapphire in his hands. Days of painstaking cutting and polishing to turn one rock into the gleaming jewel before him, its facets glowing from the light of the magma pools. A treasure. His treasure. A precious thing he’d earned that made him happy.
As an infant, he didn’t have a lot of things to his name, but this was his. Plus it was pretty, and Garble liked pretty things. His pretty sapphire.
“What do you have?” A deep voice said.
He looked up. And up. And up. At the towering figure of his dad. A red dragon like himself, but on a massive scale. He was so big, his face was cast in shadow, only his bright yellow eyes piercing through the dark.
“It’s my pretty sapphire!” Garble excitedly said.
He held it up. He wanted to show it off, be told how well he’d done after all that effort he did. His dad grabbed the miniscule gem between two claws and held it up to his face. He inspected it, turning the jewel this way and that.
Then he ate it.
Emotion rolled through Garble’s small body. A twist of rage and sadness knotting up his insides. It hurt.
“Why?!” Garble demanded.
His dad leaned down. His face came as close to the ground as possible. Even this close, only his sharp eyes could be seen in the dim light.
“Because that’s what dragons do. They take,” his father rumbled. “Never share your hoard with another dragon.”
Advice given and jewel eaten, his dad meandered further into the cavern toward his own hoard. A pile of gold and precious items stacked near to the ceiling.
Some horrid feeling squeezed his heart as he stared at the hoard. He didn’t have a word for it, but it made him want it.
But he was still a small dragon and… that was his dad.
Garble waddled off into another part of the cave. He needed a new spot to hide his hoard.
So when he got another gem, he’d make sure no one could take it.
Garble was a child.
A weird creature stood across from him. It had four legs, was shorter than him by a full head and was covered in thick fur like the mice he hunted for sport. He didn’t really know what this creature was or what he was supposed to do with them.
“Yak wants weird thing’s name!” The creature demanded.
It took Garble a moment to realize the weird thing was him.
“...Garble,” he replied.
“Yak like that name!” The creature exclaimed. “Yak’s name is Slam Poet!”
Weird name for a weird creature. He liked it. He was excited to see Garble, and that made Garble happy.
“Um, thanks?” Garble clenched his claws together, feeling heat in his face.
“Yak lost and need to find home, but yak like friend Garble.” Slam hopped in place. “Does friend Garble want to play with yak?”
Garble didn’t know what a ‘friend’ was, but he liked the sound of it. But he also didn’t know what ‘play’ was, and he was afraid that meant that Slam would leave.
“Um, yeah?” Garble said, uncertain.
“Yay! Friend Garble wants to play! But what should yak and friend Garble play? Oh, I know! Tag!” Slam headbutted Garble in the nose. Garble reeled back onto his butt. “Friend Garble is it! Chase yak!”
Then Slam was off.
Confused didn’t begin to cover Garble’s thoughts. Working purely on instinct, Garble stood up and chased after the yak. After a few moments, he managed to catch him.
“Friend Garble got yak! Yak is it now!” Slam whipped around, snorting excitedly. “Now, friend Garble run!”
Then it was Garble’s turn to run, then Slam, then Garble, cyclically chasing each other across the rocky ground just outside of Garble’s home. He loved it. He loved his friend Slam Poet. It was fun. It made him happy. He hadn’t felt so good since the day he hatched.
Eventually, once the sun had moved across the sky, they stopped, huffing and puffing in exhaustion.
“That was—” A wide toothy smile spread across Garble’s face “—great!”
“Yeah! Yak loves playing with friend Garble—”
Slam Poet was crushed by a massive clawed foot.
There was a growing pool of something underneath. It spread across the ground. It was red, like his scales, but even redder. He didn’t know what it was supposed to be. Where was Slam?
Two glowing yellow eyes filled his vision.
“Dragons don’t make friends.” A glare. “Especially with non-dragons.”
His dad stomped off back into the cave.
Garble stared at what was left. He didn’t understand what he was looking at. It was— what was this? Was this Slam? It couldn’t be Slam. Slam was— where was he?
Tremors rocked his body. Some weird fluid leaked from his eyes. He didn’t know what any of this was.
A glint of metal drew his gaze to a pile of rocks. A look revealed Slam’s saddlebags. Inside were a bunch of random notebooks. He opened them. They were written roughly like the writing he would find around the cave and on the treasure.
He opened one. Read what he could of it.
Garble liked it. It had… rhythm. Some feeling he couldn't place, but really liked. So he took it. All of it. It would go into his hoard where all his precious things went.
Because that’s what dragons did.
Garble was a preteen.
His dad had let him out of the caves with a warning that he needed to look strong. Garble didn’t really get what that meant, so he brought one of Slam’s books to read, several of Garble’s own words scribbled in the margins. It had taken him a while to learn, but, after reading several other books and getting begrudging lessons from his dad, he’d gotten into what Slam had called ‘poetry’.
None of the dragons had been interested in talking to him, so he was glad he’d brought something to entertain himself with. He found it fun, playing with words. Fitting them together to ‘sound’ right, to flow into a rhythmic verse. It was the best, which was obvious since it came from his hoard and only the best went in there.
“What’s that, dweeb?”
Garble looked up from his notebook. One of the other dragons had approached him. A bit younger than him, orange scales, and pink fins. She smirked at him, hands on her hips and leaning forward.
She had the same angular features as his father, as him. She was probably from the same clutch as him, which made her… his sister? That would mean she was family.
Slam’s books always said how great family was, but for Garble… all he thought of was his dad.
The red stain.
He didn’t want her near him.
“Go away,” Garble said.
“Not until you tell me what you got there,” the other dragon demanded.
“No. It’s mine.”
“Oh, come on! You can share it—”
“Dragons don’t share!” He snarled.
She took a step back. He hadn’t meant his words to sound so harsh. To sound just like—
“Go away,” Garble reiterated, burying himself back into his book.
A moment passed. He hoped she left. Then the notebook was snatched out of his claws.
“Hey!” Garble exclaimed.
“If dragons don’t share, that means I can just take it!” The other dragon said. “So what even is this, dweeb?”
“Give it back!”
“Nuh uh! I’m going to— Ah!”
She tripped. The notebook flew out of her hands and into the magma. Slam’s notebook. Garble’s treasure. One of the few things he had left of him. Gone.
“Oh, shoot, sorry. I didn’t actually—”
Garble didn’t remember what happened after that. One moment, he was mourning the loss of his notebook. The next, he was standing overtop the other dragon, red staining his claws, the source from the scratches that marred her hide.
He could feel his breathing become ragged. He didn’t mean that. He hadn’t— He’d never do to someone what happened to Slam. He hadn’t—
“Whoa! The new guy took out Smoulder!”
The other preteen dragons were swarming him, excitedly chattering.
“Smoulder is the toughest dragon here! How’d you do it?”
“Dang, you really messed her up!”
“Tartarus yeah, drag dude!”
They were praising him. It felt… good. They surrounded him. Told him how great he was. Like Slam. Did that mean they were his… friends? Dragons didn’t make friends, but they were dragons, not non-dragons. His dad wouldn’t do anything to them, right?
In the midst of the congratulations, he never saw what happened to the other dragon.
Garble was a teen.
His dad was dying.
He’d gotten old. A younger, full-grown dragon had gotten wind of it and decided to take their chances. That other dragon was dead.
But he’d gotten a good hit in.
Heavy breaths. His dad was covered in… blood. That was the word. Red stains. Garble was transfixed by it. It was like Slam. Like Smoulder. He hated it. He hated red. He didn’t—
“Dragons don’t show weakness,” his dad said. “Stop crying, you pathetic wimp.”
Fluid rolled down his face. Tears. He hadn’t even noticed. He just stared at his dad. What was he supposed to do in this situation? No one had prepared him for this. No one had explained what he should be doing when his dad was dying.
What was Garble supposed to do?
“...I guess you’re a dragon after all.” There was pride in his father’s voice.
In a few moments, he never spoke again.
Garble breathed long and deeply. Red stained his claws. Blood… stained his claws. His dad’s blood. His dad was smiling, teeth glinting in the dim lighting. Garble had ended him. He’d killed his dad. He couldn’t take it back. His dad had been proud of him.
An unbidden thought came to Garble’s mind.
What was his name?
It was a dumb question. He was dad. That was his name. But… that couldn’t be true. He was Garble, so his dad was… what was his name? He should know this. He needed to since his dad was dead and Garble would need to be able to remember him. What was his name? He couldn’t ask dad anymore. Why did everything suddenly hurt?
What was his name?
What was he supposed to do?
What was—
Light glinted off his dad’s hoard.
His hoard now. By right of conquest.
Because that’s what dragons did.
He walked toward the pile. Dragons didn’t need to remember their dad’s name.
Garble was watching Spike.
The idiot was nursing a phoenix between his claws. The idiot didn’t understand that he was supposed to be hunting it.
The other dragons knew that.
Why didn’t he know that?
Was it because he was raised by ponies? Was it because he had friends? Was it because he got to read and have someone teach him and tell them their names and be there when he was a screwup and wrong and—
He stalked forward. He towered over the whelp, his hands clenched into fists, claws digging into the palms.
Sheer overwhelming envy made him snarl.
Spike looked up at him. Fear crossed his features. Even as afraid as he was… he still clutched the phoenix tight to his chest, protecting it. Like… like how Garble wanted to for Slam. Like he wanted his dad to do for him.
“Why are you so pathetic?” Garble demanded.
He didn’t know who he was asking that question to.
