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In times past, dragons ruled the sky from our mountain lairs. We amassed the riches of men, and feasted on the innocence of women. We were all but unassailable, clad in natural mail harder than diamond and more enduring than gold. We were monstrous. We were magnificent. We were complacent, and that complacency engendered our downfall.
The world changed around us. We were slain by tools formed from our fallen kin’s skin, teeth and claws. We slept within our caves, becoming the very rock surrounding us. We shrank into dumb beasts, no longer resembling ourselves. The humans, not content to eradicate us, mythologized us – posthumously expunged us from history. Slowly, before we realized it, the world had been civilized. And there was no longer a place for us in it.
I am not like my kin; I adapted. Through dark rites, I learned to shed my scales, until I took the form and seeming of the humans I’d once discounted. My treasure was lost to me, but I found a greater prize, both old, and new as this age and its unlikely masters; a wealth of knowledge with which I can bend nations to my will, and any man or woman to my whim. Now, I hoard secrets.
Slowly, before they realized it, I made myself master of the human’s civilization.
I call myself Charles, because I love irony, and I am worth at least an army. Augustus, for I am great, a great ruler, and I intend to greatly increase my holdings. In that, I have not lost myself; I am still insatiable in my appetites. And finally, Magnusson, for I have created myself, and am not what I was, or perhaps am more of what I am than I could ever have been in my old form, so what I remain is magnificent.
I no longer need my breath of fire to burn people; I can do far worse with the evening edition. Remarkable invention, the press. Humans are entirely too clever for their own good; they have never learned how to keep their toys from being turned against them. Once I learned the power of words, I became the press. A Media Mogul. A Modern Man. A shadow, tyrant king.
Enter: Sherlock Holmes. London’s knight in bespoke armor. He wanted to be a pirate as a child; telling, that. Civilization seems to have come at the price of Chivalry, though that’s hardly a criticism. I have no fear of knights, especially ones that are as easily blackened as Holmes. He is but a child, wearing a fancy coat, playing at being a hero. I am a legendary, infamous beast.
Over many human lifetimes, as I have invented and reinvented myself, I have taken great care to eliminate any chinks that may have remained in my emotional mail. Never being human has proved a distinct advantage. I am more invulnerable now than I ever was when my hide doubled as armor.
But, I am still slave to my nature. While I can be patient, I am incapable of temperance. I must claim or destroy whatever I desire. I cannot tolerate challenges.
And Mycroft Holmes has dared to challenge me. He has only one, though admittedly singular, pressure point. But it is one too many, and tonight, I will squeeze.
His fool of a younger brother has so very many attachments; I’m rarely so spoilt for choice. The privateer paladin will storm my stronghold, his faithful toy soldier ever a step behind. And, in bringing his batman, he will bare his belly to me, even as he gloats over his supposed victory. I have given him every opportunity to prove he’s what he thinks he is; he has failed. He will fail again. And once I have him at heel, Mycroft will ransom him with crown and country.
Then, I will again be lord of this land, and eventually, any other of my choosing. My ascendency will be unimpeded, unrestrained, and absolute.