It’s often considered an ungainly sight, to watch a dragon climb. But climb we did, through mountain pass and freezing winds. 

My siblings clustered close in warmth and solidarity, while those of our extended circle soared in wild arcs above our heads. I’d sometimes wished I had their natural grace in the sky, but I’d spent my life on claw and haunch, and on this pilgrimage to the moon sanctum my talents were a match for theirs.

I was once embarrassed by my wings; half-formed, stumpy little things.

They recalled the jibes of childhood, disappointed glances, the developing self-esteem of a young dragon thrust into a spotlight I was not ready to inhabit. My wings would never flap in the wind, carry me upon thermal and updraft to soar above our aerie.

Yet still, I told my egg-siblings, I wished to fly.

Beneath the sanctum’s dome, the air fine and thin, I choose my moonstones.

They glimmer in rainbow hues as I pluck each one from their languid hover and press them gently but firmly into my hide.

I know all the equations, of course, but I also embed nacreous gemstones with an artist’s eye. If these are to be the lattice upon which I rebuild my self-image, I do not wish merely to tolerate their support. I wish to love them.

When I emerge, I carry myself with angelic splendour.

Do not be fooled; I am still the same wingless dragon who clambered to the tip of the world with my kin by my side. But sometimes we just need a little lift, to live out our dreams.

One by one, the moonstones begin to glow beneath my flesh, and for the first time in my life, I take flight.