The fucking spear of St. George! How do you like that?
Alistair could hardly believe that the implement of death in his hands was… well what he knew it was except that the entire length of it hummed with the divine light. His palms tingled. Choirs of angels could be heard distantly singing a hymn of victory over evil. The world was infused with light and hope and… justice.
That is, except for the part of the world that was an excoriated heap of jagged stone, sulfur, scales and death. That part was pretty bleak and depressing. The part, for example, that he was actually in…
Am I gonna fight a dragon? he thought. No. His rational side responded. You’re going to fight the King of All Dragons. Oh. Good.
Why the fuck would I want to do that? Because the other option is to betray your friends or accept a faerie curse.
Wouldn’t a faerie curse be better than getting eaten by the King of All Dragons? Possibly, I can’t help you with that one. This is the plan you came up with so we’re just trying to make the best of it.
I’m glad my rational side is so goddamned rational…
There was little question that he was actually here to fight, why else bring the spear? There was also little question that he was woefully unprepared to fight a dragon. However, even as he thought about this he realized it caused him no dread. In fact, he felt that eerie stillness settling over him that he had often known as a cop. The stillness that let him know that the situation was about to get violent. The instincts that told him exactly who was a threat and exactly how and when to pull the trigger. 14 deaths, he reminded himself. You’re in the middle of penance, right now, for 14 individuals you have killed. None of them killed you, though most of them were trying. This time, it isn’t even a person. It is an embodiment of evil and you have the blessing of a saint to go forward with the fight for God and glory.
Even as he said it, he knew he’d be adding a day to his penance for killing the beast. That is, IF he survived.