George hated dragons. They killed his family, and worse, they smelled of death and sausages. He killed dragons by the dozens, had burn scars over his arms and legs to prove it, and bore several deep gashes from claws, a couple more from teeth.
George was old, and he’d killed his last dragon. His horse had long since been buried, oddly enough in the same cemetary as the wife and children killed by that first dragon. He sat in his favorite chair by the fire and dreamed of all the dragons that would go on living – and killing – because time had taken away his weapons. His sword and shield were displayed above the fire, and he couldn’t remember what happened to his lance. He might have given it away.
No one came to visit George any more. No one much remembered what he’d done for them.
Such is the lot of heroes, to walk with death, deal with loss, and then to live a long long time – alone with those horrible memories.
He deserved better.