Ignatius had been avoiding the issue for three hundred years.
This was easy to do when you were a dragon. You simply didn't breathe fire. You let your hoard accumulate dust. You told other dragons you were on a special diet that prohibited combustion.
But it couldn't go on forever.
The therapy office was very small for a dragon. Ignatius had to leave most of himself in the corridor.
"So," said Dr. Marsh, who had a PhD in psychological trauma and had never treated a dragon, "when did you first notice the aversion?"
"The Incident," said Ignatius.
"Tell me about the Incident."
Ignatius told her about the Incident, which had happened in 1743 and involved a shepherd, a misunderstanding, a surprise, and an amount of fire that he still felt bad about. He felt bad about it for three hundred years. That was the problem.
Dr. Marsh listened carefully.
"It sounds," she said, "like you've been punishing yourself by withholding something natural to you."
"Is that bad?"
"It means you have a conscience. Which most of my patients don't."
Ignatius found this oddly comforting.
They met every Tuesday for a year. The corridor was a nuisance, but the receptionist brought him tea.
By spring, Ignatius could light a candle.
By autumn, he could heat a bowl of soup.
He never became an impressive fire-breather. But he stopped being afraid.
"That's enough," said Dr. Marsh, and she meant it in the best possible way.