The Boy Who Dreamed

Let me tell you a story. A story about a boy who dreamed of growing up and becoming a knight. He dreamed of fighting fire-breathing dragons. From what he had heard of dragons, the boy knew he’d undoubtedly be completely terrified while doing so.

Dragons could be nasty, clever creatures—full of fire and wrath. Their scaly hides were thick as iron; their teeth and talons were as sharp as steel; the force from their beating wings uprooted trees from the ground; their serpentine eyes gleamed with malice. And they hated knights with a burning, passionate vengeance. After all, no one but knights dared stand against them. No one but knights ever killed dragons.

And so, the boy knew. When he became a knight, he’d be absolutely terrified. But at the same time, he knew he could be incredibly brave. He had to be. Because those fire-breathing dragons had to be fought. Someone had to stand against them. And as that boy looked around, there was no one there. No one there was willing to fight them. No one but him.

The boy made a promise to himself. He would become a knight when he grew up. Not because it would be easy—he knew it’d be incredibly hard. Not because he’d be safe—he’d be in mortal danger almost every day. Not because he’d live a life of comfort—he knew he’d spend many cold and lonely nights outside in the dark with no one’s company to keep but his own. He wouldn’t become a knight for praise or glory—he wasn’t even sure anyone would remember his name.

That was alright by him. He didn’t want to become a knight for any of those reasons. No, he would become a knight because he knew. It was the right thing to do.

And so, the boy grew up.

He held onto his dream and refused to let go. It was hard. Beyond hard, really. Training to become a knight was grueling work. There were so many times when the boy was tempted to quit—to abandon his dream and go off in search of a better one. An easier one. A safer one. A comfortable one. A worthy one.

But in those times, the boy remembered. He remembered why he wanted to be a knight. He persevered. Each and every day he trained—for twelve, long years—with gritted teeth; he held onto that dream with a white-knuckled grip. Until at last, that dream was no longer a dream.

The boy became a knight.

He received his arms and armor in service to the king of the land. When asked where and in what way he wanted to be of service to his king, the knight was confused. He didn’t understand.

It was explained to him that many knights attended lords and ladies—they served as their guards or even attendants to fancy parties. Other knights jousted in tournaments for the adulation of the cheering masses. Occasionally they were called to arms—to fight for their king—but these were peaceful times they were living in. They had good relations with the neighboring kingdoms. So. Where and in what way did the knight wish to serve his king? He was a gifted swordsman. Perhaps he’d like to be included in the next tournament.

The knight was dismayed. This wasn’t what he had worked all those long years for, was it? No. He told his king he wanted to be of service to him—but not in any of the ways the king had described. He wanted to be of service in a way that actually mattered—a way that made a difference for the people of the land. To help them. Protect them. To fight the fire-breathing dragons that terrorized them. That was why he had wanted to become a knight in the first place.

The king was astonished by the knight’s bold and seemingly foolhardy request. Didn’t he know the danger—the deadly peril—of fighting dragons?

Yes, the knight assured him that he did. He was still terrified of them. That hadn’t changed. But neither had his resolve. Those dragons still had to be fought. And he would be the one to fight them—with the king’s blessing.

Still astonished and somewhat perplexed, the king gave the knight his blessing and sent him on his way. To serve and protect the realm from all harm and danger—be it dragons or otherwise. The king was sure he was sending the knight to his doom. And perhaps he was.

But the knight didn’t care. This was what he had wanted. Because it was the right thing to do.

The knight traveled far and wide across the land, searching for dragons. His youthful predictions had been correct. He spent many cold and lonely nights outside in the dark with no one’s company to keep but his own. He traveled to places where no one knew his name—much less the fact that he was a knight—and still, no dragons were to be found.

What had happened to them? Where had they all gone? The knight wondered. Perhaps dragons didn’t actually exist. Perhaps dragons were simply made up—childish stories told to foolish boys—to make them dream of growing up and becoming knights. Once those foolish knights realized that there were no dragons, they’d resign themselves to their parties and tournaments and the occasional skirmish with the neighboring kingdoms if political relations soured.

And so, the knight fell into a dark depression. He went to a tavern with the intent of drowning his sorrows and thought of throwing away his dream. He felt that he no longer mattered. After all, what good was a knight if there were no dragons?

It was there, when the knight was at his lowest, wanting to drown his sorrows or blackout—whichever came first—that he heard a desperate plea. A cry for help, raised by a poor farmer, hobbled and frail, with wide and frightened eyes.

His son—his only son—had been taken from their farmstead by murderous bandits. Taken because the farmer could not pay for their continued protection. Laughing, they snatched the son away and burned the farmstead to the ground. They told the poor farmer that his son belonged with them now—to settle the debt the farmer owed them. Please, begged the farmer. He’s just a boy. Please don’t let them take my boy.

No one in the tavern moved.

The farmer’s pleas struck a chord deep in the knight’s heart. His eyes widened in shocked realization. Then they narrowed with determination. The dream he’d almost forgotten came to mind—the dream he held onto with a white-knuckled grip. He gritted his teeth and set down his drink, untouched. He stood.

Perhaps there were no dragons, after all. Perhaps they existed; perhaps they didn’t. But he was still here. He was still a knight. There were still dragons to be fought. And there was no one to fight them but him.

And so, the knight left the tavern. He tracked down those murderous bandits and the captive son—stowed away in their forest hide-out. He told the brigands to return the child unharmed—or else. They refused. The battle was fierce and bloody. Though the knight was outnumbered ten to one, he slew them all. He had trained for twelve, long years to fight dragons—what were ordinary men compared to the great serpents?

He brought back the once-captive son and returned him to his weeping father. The town wanted the knight to stay—to throw him a celebratory feast and sing ballads about his name—but the knight refused. At first light, he left that small town.

The knight had remembered what he’d almost forgotten. The promise he had made all those long years ago. He didn’t want their adulation. He didn’t want their praise. That wasn’t why he did it.

The knight kept traveling across the land, moving from place to place. He searched for dragons—real or otherwise—and as he did so, he helped people. Protected them. Because it was the right thing to do.

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