Brigid, the Dragon Who Loves Christmas, has been traveling the Earth for millenia, so there are thousands upon thousands of stories to tell. This is one of them. (You can read another in Gifts from the Christmas Dragon, if you like this one.)
The Dragon's Gift
The afternoon sun filtered through silk curtains that billowed in the warm Persian breeze, casting dancing shadows across the mosaic floor of the palace's eastern hall. Brigid reclined on a mountain of cushions, her small frame nearly swallowed by the opulent fabrics—crimson and gold, azure and emerald, all threaded with silver that caught the light like captured starfire. A servant girl, no more than fourteen, knelt beside her with a bowl of grapes, each one perfectly round and glistening with moisture from the palace's underground springs.
"Another," Brigid said lazily, opening her mouth like a baby bird.
The girl obliged, placing a grape on Brigid's tongue with practiced precision. The dragon—for that is what she was, though no one looking at her would guess it—closed her eyes and savored the burst of sweetness. In this form, she appeared to be nothing more than a slight woman, perhaps in her second decade of life, with skin so pale it seemed she'd never seen the sun, despite the constellation of freckles that covered every visible inch of her. Her hair was her most striking feature: a wild shock of red that refused to be tamed, cut short in a style that would have scandalized the Persian nobility had they not known better than to comment on a dragon's choices.
She wore a simple linen shift, white as bone, with no jewelry save for a single copper band around her left wrist—a trinket she'd picked up in Alexandria three centuries ago, or was it four? Time had a way of blurring when you'd lived as long as she had.
"My lady," came a voice from the doorway. Darius, her chamberlain, bowed low. He was a good man, efficient and discreet, which were the only qualities Brigid truly valued in her household staff. "You have visitors."
Brigid cracked one eye open. "Tell them I'm indisposed."
"They are Magi, my lady. From the East. They seek permission to cross your lands."
Both eyes opened now. Brigid sat up, causing an avalanche of cushions to tumble to the floor. The servant girl scrambled to retrieve them, but Brigid waved her away. "Magi? How many?"
"Three, my lady. An aged master, a man in his prime, and an apprentice."
Brigid's lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though there was too much tooth in it to be entirely friendly. "Well, well. It's been an age since I've had proper magicians at my door. Most of them know better than to disturb me these days." She swung her legs off the cushions, her bare feet touching the cool mosaic. "I suppose I should see what they want. Send them to the garden courtyard. And Darius—have the kitchen prepare refreshments. If they've come all the way from the East, they'll be hungry."
"At once, my lady."
Brigid stood, stretching like a cat. She padded barefoot through the palace, her feet making no sound on the stone floors. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as she passed, their eyes downcast. They knew what she was, of course. Everyone in her household knew. But they also knew that she paid well, asked little, and had never once eaten any of them, which made her a far better employer than most of the Persian nobility.
The garden courtyard was her favorite part of the palace. She'd designed it herself, modeling it after a garden she'd seen in Babylon before that city had fallen to ruin. A fountain burbled in the center, surrounded by beds of roses, jasmine, and herbs whose names she'd forgotten. Date palms provided shade, and the air was thick with the scent of orange blossoms. Stone benches lined the perimeter, and it was to one of these that Brigid made her way, settling herself with her legs tucked beneath her.
The three Magi entered a few moments later, escorted by Darius.
The eldest was a man who had clearly seen many decades, his beard white as snow and reaching nearly to his waist. He wore robes of deep purple, embroidered with symbols that Brigid recognized as Zoroastrian, though there were other markings woven in—older symbols, from traditions that predated the Prophet by millennia. His eyes were sharp despite his age, and they fixed on Brigid with an intensity that suggested he saw more than her human form.
The second was perhaps forty, with a neatly trimmed black beard and the bearing of a scholar. His robes were simpler, dark blue with silver trim, and he carried a leather satchel that bulged with scrolls and instruments. He had the look of a man who spent his nights studying the stars and his days debating philosophy.
The youngest couldn't have been more than twenty. He was clean-shaven in the Roman style, with nervous eyes that darted around the courtyard as if cataloging every detail. His robes were the plainest of the three—undyed wool with a simple rope belt—but he wore them with a pride that suggested he'd only recently earned the right to call himself a Magus.
"My lady Brigid," the eldest said, bowing deeply. "We are honored by your hospitality."
"You know my name," Brigid observed. "But I don't know yours."
"I am Melchior," the old man said. "This is Caspar"—he gestured to the man in his prime—"and our young companion is Balthazar."
"Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar," Brigid repeated, tasting the names. "You've come a long way. Sit, please. My servants will bring food and drink."
The three Magi settled themselves on the benches opposite Brigid. As if summoned by her words, servants appeared with trays laden with dates, figs, flatbread, cheese, and cups of cool water flavored with mint. The Magi accepted the refreshments with grateful nods, and for a few moments, the only sound was the fountain and the distant call of birds.
"So," Brigid said, once they'd had a chance to eat. "You seek permission to cross my lands. Where are you headed?"
"Judea," Melchior said. "To Bethlehem, specifically."
Brigid raised an eyebrow. "Bethlehem? That's quite a journey. What business do three Magi have in a backwater town in Judea?"
Caspar leaned forward, his eyes bright with excitement. "We have been studying the stars, my lady. For months, we have observed a conjunction of planets—Jupiter and Saturn, meeting in the constellation of Pisces. It is a sign of great significance."
"A sign of what?" Brigid asked, though she had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.
"A birth," Melchior said quietly. "A powerful force for good is entering the world. A king, perhaps. Or a prophet. Or something greater still. We have come to honor his arrival with gifts and praise."
Brigid was silent for a long moment. She reached for a cup of water and drank deeply, buying herself time to think. When she set the cup down, her expression was unreadable.
"A powerful force for good," she repeated. "In Bethlehem."
"Yes, my lady," Balthazar said eagerly. It was the first time he'd spoken, and his voice cracked slightly with youth and enthusiasm. "The signs are unmistakable. This child will change the world."
"They always do," Brigid murmured. She looked at the three men, studying them. They were sincere, she could see that. They truly believed they were on a sacred mission. And perhaps they were. She'd lived long enough to know that the universe had a sense of humor, and that prophecies had a way of fulfilling themselves in the most unexpected ways.
"You know what I am," she said. It wasn't a question.
Melchior nodded. "We do. You are Brigid the Dragon, one of the eldest of your kind. You have walked this earth for longer than any human civilization. Your power is vast, and your wisdom is deep."
"Flattery," Brigid said, but there was no heat in it. "You want something more than just permission to cross my lands."
Caspar smiled. "You are perceptive, my lady. We would be honored if you would join us on our journey. A being of your power and knowledge would be a fitting witness to this momentous event."
Brigid laughed. It started as a chuckle, low in her throat, but it grew until it filled the courtyard, echoing off the walls. The Magi exchanged glances, uncertain whether they should be offended or alarmed. The servants, who knew their mistress better, simply waited for the laughter to subside.
When Brigid finally caught her breath, she wiped tears from her eyes. "Oh, that's rich. You want me to come with you to honor a powerful force for good?" She shook her head, still grinning. "Gentlemen, I appreciate the invitation, truly I do. But I'm going to have to decline."
"May I ask why, my lady?" Melchior said carefully.
Brigid's smile faded, replaced by something more somber. She leaned back against the bench, her eyes distant. "The last time I tried to visit with a so-called powerful force for good, I ended up making him mad enough to destroy the most advanced civilization on Earth at the time."
The three Magi stared at her. Balthazar's mouth had fallen open slightly.
"You're speaking of Atlantis," Caspar said slowly.
"I am," Brigid confirmed. "Though that wasn't what they called it. The name has been corrupted over the centuries, passed down through stories and legends until it bears little resemblance to the truth. But yes, I'm speaking of that place. That shining city of crystal and bronze, where they'd mastered arts that your modern world can barely imagine. Where they'd learned to harness the very forces of nature, to bend reality to their will."
"What happened?" Balthazar whispered.
Brigid was quiet for a moment, her gaze fixed on the fountain. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost wistful. "I was younger then. Not young, mind you—I was already ancient by human standards—but younger than I am now. Less cautious. Less... jaded. I heard rumors of this great civilization, this place where humans had achieved wonders. And I was curious. Dragons are curious creatures by nature, you see. It's both our greatest strength and our greatest weakness."
She paused, reaching for a fig from one of the trays. She turned it over in her fingers, examining it as if she'd never seen one before.
"So I went to see for myself. I took this form—or one very like it—and I walked among them. And they were magnificent, truly. They'd built towers that scraped the sky. They'd created machines that could think and reason. They'd even begun to unlock the secrets of immortality. But there was a darkness at the heart of it all, a rot that I didn't see at first."
"What kind of darkness?" Melchior asked.
"Pride," Brigid said simply. "Hubris. They'd achieved so much that they'd begun to believe they were gods themselves. They'd forgotten that there were powers in the universe greater than their machines and their magic. And when I tried to warn them—when I tried to tell them that they were courting disaster—they laughed at me. Called me a primitive. A relic of a bygone age."
She bit into the fig, chewing slowly. "So I left. I returned to my true form and I flew away, back to my lair in the mountains. And I should have stopped there. I should have let them face whatever consequences their arrogance would bring. But I couldn't let it go."
"But you said you made someone mad enough to destroy them," Caspar said. "That you were responsible."
Brigid's expression darkened. "I was. Because instead of accepting that I'd done what I could—that I'd warned them and they'd rejected me—I made a choice. I went to see him. The one they called the Maker, the Architect, the First Cause. Different cultures have different names for him. You'd probably call him God, though that's a simplification."
She set down the fig, her appetite gone. "I told him what I'd seen. I told him that the humans in that city had grown too powerful, too arrogant. That they were a danger to themselves and to the world. And I knew—I knew—what he might do. But I went anyway. I couldn't bear that they'd dismissed me, that they'd laughed at a dragon's wisdom. So I reported them like a petulant child running to a parent."
She finished wiping her fingers on her shift, the gesture mechanical. "And he listened. And then he acted. He sent the waters to swallow that city, to erase it from the face of the earth. Every tower, every machine, every person—gone in a single night. And it was my fault. Not because I warned them—that was right. But because I couldn't walk away when they refused to listen. Because I went to the Maker and set that destruction in motion when I should have simply let them go on."
The courtyard was silent save for the fountain. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.
"I've carried that guilt for a very long time," Brigid said quietly. "Longer than you can imagine. And I swore to myself that I would never again interfere in the affairs of powerful forces for good. Because in my experience, those forces have a way of causing just as much destruction as the forces for evil. Sometimes more, because they believe they're justified."
Melchior stroked his beard thoughtfully. "With respect, my lady, I don't think this is the same situation. We're not going to warn anyone or to interfere. We're simply going to honor a birth. To acknowledge the arrival of something sacred."
"And what if your acknowledgment changes things?" Brigid asked. "What if your gifts and your praise set events in motion that lead to suffering? What if this child grows up believing he's destined for greatness, and that belief leads him down a dark path?"
"Then that is the risk we take," Caspar said firmly. "But we cannot let fear of what might happen prevent us from honoring what is. The stars have spoken, my lady. This birth is significant. To ignore it would be to turn our backs on our sacred duty as seekers of wisdom."
Brigid studied the three men. They were so certain, so full of conviction. She envied them that, in a way. It had been centuries since she'd felt that kind of certainty about anything.
"You're going to go whether I give you permission or not, aren't you?" she said.
Melchior smiled. "We would prefer to have your blessing, my lady. But yes, we will go regardless. This is too important."
Brigid sighed. "Very well. You have my permission to cross my lands. I'll have my people provide you with supplies—food, water, fresh horses if you need them. The route through the desert can be treacherous, and I'd hate for you to die of thirst before you reach your precious child."
"Thank you, my lady," Balthazar said, bowing deeply. "Your generosity is—"
"I'm not finished," Brigid interrupted. She stood, pacing to the fountain. She dipped her hand in the water, watching the ripples spread outward. "I won't go with you. I can't. But I want you to take something from me."
She reached into a pocket of her shift—a pocket that shouldn't have been there, that existed in a space slightly adjacent to normal reality—and withdrew a small leather pouch. She hefted it in her hand, feeling the weight of the coins inside.
"Gold," she said, tossing the pouch to Melchior. The old Magus caught it deftly. "Twelve coins, freshly minted. Add them to whatever gifts you're planning to bring. Tell the child's parents it's from a friend who couldn't make the journey."
Melchior opened the pouch, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the coins. They were beautiful things, stamped with images of dragons and stars, made from gold so pure it seemed to glow with its own inner light.
"This is too generous, my lady," he said.
"It's not generous at all," Brigid said. "It's guilt money. It's me trying to balance the scales, just a little bit. If this child really is a force for good, then maybe my gold will help him. And if he's not..." She shrugged. "Well, at least his parents will be able to afford a decent life for him."
Caspar stood, bowing. "We will deliver your gift with honor, my lady. And we will tell the child's parents of your kindness."
"Don't tell them anything about me," Brigid said sharply. "Just give it with the rest of the gifts. That's all. Let them conclude what they will conclude."
"As you wish, my lady."
Brigid turned away from them, facing the fountain. "Darius will see to your supplies. You should leave at first light tomorrow. The desert is cooler in the morning, and you'll make better time."
"Thank you, my lady," Melchior said. "May we ask one more question before we go?"
Brigid didn't turn around. "You may ask. I may not answer."
"Do you truly believe that powerful forces for good are as dangerous as forces for evil?"
Brigid was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "I believe that power is dangerous, period. Good, evil—those are just labels we put on things to make ourselves feel better about our choices. The truth is that anyone with enough power to change the world will change it in ways that hurt some people, no matter how noble their intentions. The only question is whether the good they do outweighs the harm."
She finally turned to face them, and there was something ancient and terrible in her eyes, something that reminded them that she was not human, had never been human, and saw the world through a lens they could never fully understand.
"I hope that child is everything you believe him to be," she said. "I hope he brings light and joy and peace to the world. But I've lived long enough to know that hope is a dangerous thing. It makes us blind to the costs of our dreams."
Melchior bowed one final time. "Then I will hope for both of us, my lady. And perhaps, in time, you will see that not all powerful forces lead to destruction."
"Perhaps," Brigid said, though her tone suggested she didn't believe it.
The three Magi left the courtyard, escorted by Darius. Brigid stood by the fountain for a long time after they'd gone, watching the water and thinking about cities that had fallen, civilizations that had crumbled, and all the times she'd tried to do the right thing only to make everything worse.
Finally, she returned to her cushions in the eastern hall. The servant girl was still there, waiting patiently with the bowl of grapes.
"Another," Brigid said, settling back into the pillows.
The girl placed a grape on her tongue, and Brigid closed her eyes, savoring the sweetness. Outside, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold. Somewhere to the west, three Magi were preparing for a journey that would take them to Bethlehem, to witness the birth of a child who would change the world.
Brigid tried not to think about what that change might cost, about Atlantis sinking beneath the waves, or about all the other times she'd seen hope turn to ash.
But she thought about them anyway. She always did.
And in her pocket—that impossible pocket that existed between moments—the weight of guilt sat heavy, even though she'd given away twelve gold coins to try to lighten it.
Some burdens, she'd learned, could never be set down.
Some mistakes could never be unmade.
And some dragons could never stop being what they were: ancient, powerful, and forever haunted by the memories of all the things they'd seen and done and failed to prevent.
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