A Dragon's Dream

The meadow, once a battlefield of glitter and indignation, now shimmered with a profound, almost deafening, stillness. Sammy, perched atop a dew-kissed dandelion, surveyed her domain. Her wings, usually a blur of furious activity, were tucked neatly behind her, still faintly dusted with the iridescent remnants of her latest, and most decisive, weapon: pure, unadulterated annoyance. Bartholomew, the colossal, nap-loving dragon, had retreated. Not with a fiery roar, nor a thunderous stomp, but with a mumbled apology and a promise to never again disturb the delicate ecosystem of Sammy’s prize-winning petunias.

A faint scent of crushed elderberries still hung in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the epic chase that had culminated in this sweet, albeit slightly sticky, victory. Sammy puffed out her chest, a tiny puff of pride swelling within her. She had done it. She, Sammy, the fairy with the temper that could curdle milk and the determination of a badger with a grudge, had vanquished the slumbering giant. Bartholomew, with his scales like ancient armor and a yawn that could swallow a small village, was gone. He had shuffled off, a truly pathetic sight, his massive tail dragging behind him like a deflated party balloon, his eyes already half-closed, already drifting back to the blissful oblivion of a good nap.

Sammy fluttered down from her dandelion perch, landing with a delicate *thump* on a patch of clover. She stretched her wings, feeling the familiar ache of exertion, but it was a good ache, the ache of a warrior who had fought valiantly and won. She twirled, a tiny whirlwind of triumph, her laughter tinkling through the quiet air like wind chimes. The meadow was hers again. The sunbeams, no longer obscured by dragon shadows, dappled the grass in patterns of gold and green. The bees buzzed contentedly, their tiny legs laden with pollen, their worries seemingly as minuscule as Sammy’s size.