The sun was warm, the grass soft beneath my feet as I ran through the field. My small hands reached for the wildflowers, yanking at their stems clumsily as my laughter filled the air. I turned back, clutching a small bouquet, and saw her-my mother.
Her hair shone like gold in the sun, down her back, as she knelt on the grass. Her fingers were busy weaving into a small crown the flowers I had just brought in. She smiled warmly; her eyes were soft with love.
"Did I get enough?" I asked, high-pitched and earnest.
She laughed lightly. "It's more than enough, my little one. Come here."
I bounded over to her and plopped down on the grass. She set the crown on my head and adjusted it, cocking her head as if she was studying her masterpiece.
"There," she said, satisfied. "Now you look like a little prince."
I grinned, reaching up to touch the crown. "A prince? Does that mean I get to give orders?"
"Orders?" she repeated with mock surprise. "A prince should be kind, not bossy."
But princes have knights," I protested. "And knights have swords!"
She chuckled, leaning in. "What would you even do with a sword, hmm?"
"Fight monsters," I said with assurance.
"Oh, of course," she said, nodding solemnly. "And what kind of monsters are out there, brave knight?"
I thought hard for a moment. "Big ones. With sharp teeth. And wings!"
She gasped dramatically. "Wings, too? My, my, you do have your work cut out for you.
We sat there, the gentle breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers. It was perfect-so peaceful that even the soft hum of cicadas added to the charm.
"How was school today?" she asked after a moment.
I scrunched up my face. "Boring. I don't like math."
Math is important," she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "How else will you count your gold when you become a prince?"
I giggled, my child's mind enchanted by the thought. "I'll have someone else do it!"
She shook her head, amused. "Lazy and bossy? What am I going to do with you?
We tittered, and then it all felt like the world had only two elements: him and me, on that particular field. The tranquility was broken with heavy clomping feet.
I turned to see him-my father. He was a giant of a man, and his presence seemed to fill the serenity of the atmosphere. His face was stern, lined with scars that told stories of battles I was too young to understand. One eye was missing, covered by a dark patch, giving him an intimidating air.
At his hip were two swords: one long, one short. The blades appeared to have seen innumerable battles, their hilts worn but sturdy.
"Come here," he called, his voice all gravelly and commanding.
I hesitated, looked at my mother. Her smile faltered, and for a moment, there was something in her eyes- fear? Sadness? I couldn't tell.
"It's okay," she said softly, rising and smoothing her dress. She took my hand, and together, we approached him.
As we drew near, his face clouded. Suddenly, his hand lashed out, slapping my mother across the face.
The sound of the slap cut through the serenity of the field. She staggered but did not fall, her hand pressed against her cheek as she straightened herself.
I froze, too shocked to react. My father's one good eye glared at me, cold and unyielding.
And then the dream ended.
---
I woke up gasping, my chest heaving as though I had just run a mile. Sweat drenched my body, clinging to the sheets like a second skin.
What the hell was that?" I whispered, sitting up and rubbing my face. My hands slightly trembled, my brain still trying to catch ahold of the dream.
It was just so alive, so real: the sun's warmth, the softness of the grass, the sting of that slap-all seemed as real as if it had only just happened.
My heart pounded as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "A dream," I said aloud, trying to convince myself. "It was just a dream."
But was it?
In the seven days since I'd woken up in this world, I hadn't dreamed once. My nights had been empty, filled with nothing but darkness. Until now.
I wiped the sweat from my brow and stood. My shirt clung uncomfortably against my back; I pulled at it, grimacing. The air in this room felt thick, overwhelming, like a weight still hadn't entirely lift from the dream.
"Seven days," I muttered and paced across the room, reflecting on how this was now seven days since that particular council meeting, where I resolve just to keep my head above water and involve myself exclusively with paperwork. Seven days of avoiding my wife Katerina.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. "Some life I'm living."
I looked toward the window where the first rays of dawn crept through the curtains. Another day loomed, filled with responsibilities I didn't want but couldn't avoid.
Taking a deep breath, I made myself calm down. Whatever the dream meant—if it meant anything at all—I couldn't let it distract me.
"Focus," I told myself, heading to the washbasin. "Just focus."
With that, I had begun to ready myself for the day ahead, but at the back of my mind, the thought of the field and the smiling face of Mother lingered.