Fiction logo

Your Majesty

When dreams blur into reality, how can she wake?

By Madi ScruggsPublished 2 years ago 7 min read
Like
Your Majesty
Photo by Max Nguyen on Unsplash

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

Every now and then, the near-empty place in Imogen's hazy dreams featured aquamarine stags wandering through the overgrowth, or slow-moving yaks covered in rose petals, which they shook off like shedding fur. She never stopped to ask herself, 'what did it mean?' because it didn't matter. Nothing mattered in that place.

In these dreams, it was always dusk, that perfect time when the sun dipped just below the horizon, and the air was always thick and warm, with a light breeze drifting across her face. These pieces were consistent; familiar, even. Almost as if this place had once been a home to her, long ago.

Last night, there had been a dragon.

Imogen had been lying on her back in a dirtied white corset and ripped petticoat; it looked like the lining of a wedding dress. The edges of her hem were burned. She rose up off of the ground, vaguely noticing the dirt caked beneath her fingernails, hearing a low thud as her attention was pulled to the tree line on the left. A massive creature, eyes wide and gray-green, tail dragging along the forest floor behind it, stepped into the clearing and stared at her.

For some reason, Imogen opened her mouth and said, "Hello."

The magnificent creature bowed its mighty head so that its pink snout brushed the grasses below. Its jaw opened, revealing row upon rows of razor-sharp teeth, each one the size of Imogen herself.

It purred, "Your majesty."

---

Imogen awoke the next morning feeling unsettled.

She would never tell her grandmother, but lately these dreams didn't feel like dreams: they felt like memories. Every time she was pulled out of one, waking up in the dusty light of the East Texas morning, she felt like this was the place she didn't belong in, like the fields of her grandmother's farm were constructed in her mind and pretty soon she'd be yanked back to the Valley; back with the ethereal creatures who felt like family and the setting sun, which felt like home.

Except for that dragon. Now, that had felt odd. Your majesty, it had said, and the words repeated in her mind.

Your majesty. Your majesty. Your majesty.

Weren't dreams meant to be jumbled and messy? Wasn't the space supposed to be nameless and random, drawn from a place of emotion so that the details were blurred and pieces didn't fit quite right? The Valley was a place she knew, one she recognized. This was a place that had a name, that she returned to every single night...and wasn't that odd?

Like she did most mornings, Imogen tried to close her eyes and drift back into the sunset-scape, but it didn't work; she just lay motionless on the old quilt until she couldn't take it anymore, and so she rose to begin the day. She let the morning sun, which was streaming in through the attic window, bathe her skin in warmth. Another hot day, she thought.

She trudged downstairs in her overalls and wellies, glancing at the microwave clock as she passed through the kitchen towards the back door. 6:02. She took one step outside before remembering the one thing that gave her life at this time of the day: her coffee, so she turned back to grab a cup from the machine.

It was already full of a deep brown roast. Wait. Who made this?

Obviously, it was her grandmother-- no one else would have done. But what was she doing up this early? Imogen always did the morning chores, and was normally halfway done by the time her grandmother even considered changing out of her pajamas.

A few wisps of morning mist lingered over the grassy field as Imogen walked out into the rows and rows of wildflowers, where her grandmother was standing near the tree line, gazing out towards the dense oak forest.

"Grandma?"

There was a long pause, pregnant with the chatter of sparrows and the distant braying of a neighbor's mule. Finally, her grandmother's head shifted one iota towards Imogen's voice.

"I saw someone," she said softly, "I saw someone in the forest."

Imogen took a deep swig of her coffee, only slightly concerned. Her grandmother was getting quite old, after all, and while she'd never found her outside this early before, peculiar things were known to happen. Once, when she'd returned home from a date, she'd found her grandmother shin-deep in the pond on the west side of their property, gazing out at the water. Another time, Imogen found her chanting and spinning in circles amongst the peonies they were growing for spring. Imogen had accompanied her to doctor's appointments where they'd told her she was fine, just getting on in her years.

"Grandma," she said tentatively, "are you okay?"

When her grandmother turned to her, Imogen noticed a look on her face she'd never seen before. Her scraggly gray curls tangled around her face, loose and out of their signature knot, but not hiding the fear in her bright eyes.

"Immy," she breathed, her words jagged with terror, "Go check for me."

"I-- what? No. What if it's...a-a murderer or someone? I'm not wandering into the forest alone. Let's call the police if you're so worried about it."

"Imogen, please," her grandmother urged, reaching out to grasp the sides of her arms. Her eyes were wild, the exact shade of gray-green Imogen had seen on the dragon in her dream. The color was so similar, Imogen shivered. "Just go check, baby. Just...just go check," she repeated, as if she were in a trance. "Go check."

Imogen took one tentative step towards the wood.

"Well...okay," she said. If she was being honest, she wasn't sure she'd find anyone. She thought maybe Grandma had just seen a moseying deer or the shadow of a tree bathed in the morning sun. She took another long swig of her coffee. Just chalk it up as an excuse for a morning walk.

Despite her initial calm, her heart did begin to beat more rapidly as she approached the tree line. To keep from losing her way, she stuck to the path that she used to drive her ATV on. On a typical warm day like this, she liked riding through the forest on the four-wheeler; she liked feeling the cool air against her neck and loved the way her hair whipped back as the wheels roared over rock and sticks and stone. Every now and then she imagined she was riding a horse when she pressed the throttle of the machine; perhaps a great palomino with a wild mane that could weave effortlessly through the winding path.

In that moment, with each passing step, Imogen's worry for her grandmother intensified. Her guardian had never looked like that before: frail, helpless, terrified. Maybe she didn't get enough sleep. Maybe the coffee was bad. Maybe Imogen should look back and make sure she was okay. As the thought passed through her head, she turned, her eyes traveling back and forth along the field, but her grandmother was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared.

"Grandma?" she called out, her heart beginning to pound with fear. "Granny?"

A branch snapped. Before Imogen could even turn around, a hand grasped her wrist; tight, urgent. Imogen yelped in surprise though she thought it might be her grandmother playing a trick on her and, in that way, felt a small sense of relief.

It wasn't her grandmother, though. She finally turned and screamed again, this time piercing, impossible for the neighbors to ignore, because there in front of her was a disheveled, soaking wet man. Droplets of water transferred from his wet palm to her arm, especially as she tried to wrench away from his grip. He was dressed in some kind of uniform, maybe from the Navy or Marines, with golden tassels on his shoulders and medals of honor hanging haphazardly from his open jacket. A rich opal sat on his lapel, and if Imogen glanced at it long enough, she could swear that it was glowing. No, that can't be right.

"Granny!" she screamed, finally whipping her wrist out of the man's grasp so hard, she fell to the forest floor. Her wellies dug into the mud as she shoved herself back, but he followed her until her back slammed into a tree and she cried out, "Ow!"

"Princess, are you all right?" the man, who was now crouching beside her, asked in a thick accent. In a daze, she looked up at him and blinked.

"I'm sorry...what did you call me?"

"Princess," he said, reaching out to grasp her hand. "It's me. I made it."

Fantasy
Like

About the Creator

Madi Scruggs

Reader insights

Be the first to share your insights about this piece.

How does it work?

Add your insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment

    Find us on social media

    Miscellaneous links

    • Explore
    • Contact
    • Privacy Policy
    • Terms of Use
    • Support

    © 2024 Creatd, Inc. All Rights Reserved.