A Princess Did This
A legendary dragon is on its way to capture a princess… but it’s not expecting the plot twist.
Scorchtongue tore through the forest. Scaled claws splintered trees, dark wings scraped canopy, and his slithering tail dug a ditch in the ground behind him. Easy to follow, but there would be no pursuers. All were farmers in this kingdom. All cowards.
“Why do you devastate and tear, while stalking towards the maiden fair?” the magical bird asked. The glimmering creatures had infested The Land since shortly after the snows melted. This one had haunted Scorchtongue’s cave for weeks, spewing verse and inane questions, and had followed him out on this midnight raid. The creature was hard to ignore.
“Why do you devastate and tear, while stalking towards the maiden fair?” the tiny irritant repeated in identical sing-song tone, spinning in wild circles around the dragon’s head. Scorchtongue released a small belch of flame, but the bird, with enviable speed and maneuverability, darted out of the way.
“I aim to take her to my cave, bird,” Scorchtongue replied. In truth, his desire for treasure motivated him. He slept on a trove of forgotten gold, gems, ornate armor, and magical weapons. It had been many years since a party of warriors made an attempt at his hoard. Those incursions meant easy meals for him and shiny new treasure picked from their bones. A princess would entice the brave to come.
He was not about to explain this to a bird.
“What injustice has she done to you, this innocent that you now pursue?” asked the bird in its annoying chirruping voice.
“Nothing, bird. I’m a dragon. Dragons take princesses.” Although tempted to spew more fire, he thought better of it. Breathing flame weakened a dragon and he needed to fly on this night.
“Listen as my song reveals exactly what a princess feels.”
At that, the bird opened its beak and trilled a short song. Scorchtongue heard and was entranced. He suddenly knew, as if he’d lived it himself. He knew a princess’s constant fear of dragon attack. Shadows of passing hawks sending chills down the spine. Open sky weighted with possible doom. Never feeling safe.
Scorchtongue violently shook the song from his grizzled head.
The bird zipped into his field of vision, asking, “What think you of my tune, oh beast, have sympathies now been released?”
“Interesting song, bird, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a princess to take and no time for doggerel.” With that, Scorchtongue beat his mighty wings and took to the air, for he had reached the clearing.
Princess Abigail had watched the exchange through her magic mirror.
It had been a gift from the same traveling sorceress who had provided her with the bird. The woman had shown up at the palace gates, clad in buckskins and animal hides, smelling of damp mud and swamp water. She offered no name upon introduction. Abigail asked where she came from, and the only reply was “places.”
The sorceress became more talkative when she explained her gifts. The bird and mirror were connected. When unused, the bird slept in a golden cage. When released, it would fly through the parlor window and out into the world, wherever Abigail commanded it. The mirror would show the view through the bird’s eyes, and whatever she said in front of the mirror the bird would speak, necromantically translated into verse. Through the bird she could make those on the other end see or feel as she did.
The sorceress did not charge for these considerable wares.
“Is there not some ironic price I am to pay later?” Abigail had queried. “Will you return for my firstborn, perhaps?” It seemed a fair question.
“These gifts I freely give you because you have need of them,” was all the sorceress said.
On this night, Abigail knew that her kingdom’s dragon was on the move: the bird had shown her that. Through the bird, she had spoken to the dragon, had even shown it her soul, but it would not be dissuaded. She almost pitied the big lizard, but he’d had his chance to turn back.
Instead, he would face the sorceress’s third gift.
Scorchtongue flew high above the grasslands, over the peasant farms on the outskirts towards the walled city in the distance. Rising from its middle: the tower. Approaching, Scorchtongue — not easily surprised — was shocked to see the princess herself standing by the parapet as if waiting to be taken. Pleased at his good fortune, the dragon narrowed his wings and picked up speed. As he closed the distance, he saw two things.
Scorchtongue saw the bird that had tormented him perched on the maiden’s shoulder.
He also saw a golden arrow. It was trained upon him, notched in the string of a bow that the princess had pulled back. He was going too fast to change course.
The princess released the arrow. As it flew towards him, it grew and impossibly changed shape into an immense glimmering net, enveloping him, wrapping around his wings.
Scorchtongue came crashing down. The rumble was heard for miles. He tried to break the bonds, but the more he struggled the more they tightened. Ceasing his thrashing, he lay there dazed for a time at the foot of the tower, all silent except for the chirp of insects.
A few moments later, the princess emerged from an enormous door, followed by a small army of men and horses. At her command they lashed chains and heavy rope to the magical netting, then laboriously dragged Scorchtongue into an enormous chamber in the tower’s base. The dragon remained silent through this process. By the time they finished, the first hints of morning light were visible over the mountains.
Men and horses departed leaving Scorchtongue sprawled on the stone floor, immobilized. The princess stood above him, bird on her shoulder, looking rather haughty.
“You’re my prisoner now,” she said. “How does that feel?”
“Well played princess,” Scorchtongue replied. “What say you let me go and we call it even?”
Ignoring him, the princess spoke instead to the bird.
“Show them, show them all what happened to this dragon.” She gestured towards Scorchtongue, so pathetically entangled. “A princess did this!”
Her bird launched obediently into the dawn-breaking sky where it was met by the magical birds of other princesses, for unbeknownst to Abigail, the sorceress had made the rounds.
The birds circled each other in a glittering blue swarm as Abigail’s bird shared her message with the others. As the sun fully breached mountain border, delighted princesses in parlors across The Land ordered their birds take it further.
And so, the flock disbanded and the magical messengers spread to every hidden corner of every kingdom. They told the peasants in the fields, the fishermen in their boats, royalty and tradesmen, elves and dwarves, knights and pages, everyone from the bogbeasts of the hinterlands to the trolls that dwelt under the bridges.
That message: a trilled song that evoked in listeners the image of Scorchtongue, pathetic and helpless, Princess Abigail standing proudly above him, and the words she had spoken, versified thusly: The lizard lies, securely bound, a princess pulled him to the ground.
Sir Reginald heard it that morning while armoring up in his courtyard for a crusade against an evil wizard. He was aghast.
“This is terrible, bird. The princess has made a grievous mistake. It is a knight’s job to rescue her. She has upset the natural order.”
The bird responded, at the behest of some princess, “Knights and dragons both seem to trade in, the limitation of the maiden. Sometimes I wonder whether they’re in on it together. Perhaps old rules need not apply. A Princess needs a true ally.”
Reginald scoffed, considering his response.
Gristletooth was visited by a magical bird in his cave. He considered himself an atypical dragon and took issue with the message.
“I sit here on my trove and never have I taken a princess. Never! Not all dragons victimize the innocent. Not all dragons!” he roared defensively. Miles away, a princess, finding his response amusing, requested that her bird deliver it to the world along with her response.
The conversation continued and slowly, like the gradual lightening of sky and shadow that comes with morning, The Land began to change.
It is worth noting that although the tweet did not concern them directly, trolls had plenty to say about it.
Charles Cline is a fiction writer, filmmaker, and educator. He recently completed his first novel and is seeking representation.
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