otoh

A dragon can spot you in a crowd. The sick, the lame, the young, the old, the slow, the wounded (most of all, the wounded) — all are easy prey and fair game. Backed against a wall, you face the dragon. The dragon casts a furtive glance and then a spell, of sorts. You stare, mesmerized, into the dragon’s eyes.

“I have only my two hands,” you plead, “and my heart.”

“Give me your hands.”

“Take them.”

The claws wrap around your throat. “I want your heart,” the dragon whispers. “I want your heart.”

“Take it.”

Another claw runs down your chest, laying you open. “You want the pain?”

“Yes. Give me the pain and take away my heart. The pain is mine. The heart is yours.”

“This heart.” The claws reach in and pull it, still beating, from your chest. “This heart is mine.”

“YES!”

“And when I no longer want it?”

“Still, it is yours. The pain is mine.”

“What use is your heart to me?”

“I don’t know. You said you wanted it.”

“To do with as I choose?”

“Yes.”

“The pain is yours?”

“Yes.”

“And what use is your pain to you?”

“When I feel pain, I know I am not dead yet.”

The dragon drops your heart to the ground and flies away. Your heart shudders and quivers. Inexplicably, it still beats. You can see it, but you cannot feel it. The dragon loosens its grip. You fall, handless, heartless. But not quite dead. Not painless.