THREE DARK QUEENS
are born in a glen
SWEET LITTLE TRIPLETS
will never be friends
THREE DARK WITCHES
all fair to be seen
TWO TO DEVOUR
one to be queen
On the island of Fennbirn every generation three triplets are born, all equal heirs to the throne...
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It has been three days, two hours and fourth seven minutes since that day. That's the only thing that Arwen knows is true. Time is all she has left. Time she had. Time she has lost. The time that forces her to remain in the mould of her body until it withers and dies.
Time is a cruel being. Luring her into this false sense of hope that she could one day forgo her destiny, that she and him could have all the time in the world. Hope.
A sentimental fool's hope.
But a fool she is no longer.
No.
She has changed, she feels that now as she feels the darkness growing inside of her. Her gift so powerful that she feel as though she could explode with it and take the whole island with her.
But perhaps the whole island is a bit dramatic.
No. Just one will do.
Carina.
The one who has taken everything from her. For that Arwen will construct her demise. That is her only goal now. The throne can wait. Survival can wait. Vengeance can not. And that is all she truly has to live for. To make his death mean something. To avenge him.
Those are the thoughts that drift in half of her mind but the other half is consumed with this emptiness, this nothingness as her mind tries to push the grief away.
And Queen Arwen just sits, like the eye of the storm, amongst the chaos around her. The chaos she inflicted. Her room lies in ruins, similarly to her soul. Everything is broken and disarrayed. But she barely remembers doing it.
Though she can faintly recall the sound of her own screams, so hoarse yet harrowing, as they tore through Draven Mansion. But now her voice is gone, silenced to nothing but a whisper. But she does not need to speak. For who is she to speak to. They would surely speak to her about ... about him. Her only reason that she had truly wanted to live. Now she simply is. Existing but not. Alive but not.
The loss of him has torn into her, ravaging what little remains of her fragmented being. At least she has not heard his name uttered by anyone. She cannot bear it. Nor any mention of him at all. Even in death the thought of him still consumes her with an embrace. Not one of a lover. A deathless embrace of heartache.
The old Arwen is gone, that is the only thing she is sure of - replaced by a shell of a creature. But at least her shadows embrace her, there to listen to her woes and inner turmoils.
And from the first day alone she remembers a little more as the days go by. Time passing as day and night collide, merging into the same perpetual notion of existence. But she remembers that first day. The feelings of the soft fabric beneath her vengeful hands as she tore the curtains apart, ripping them to shreds with disturbing ease.
The maids come to her room everyday; after so many days of the same the looks of surprise and sympathy on their faces have ceased. Instead they wordlessly enter her room, careful not to disturb her as they tidy everything and fix all that is destroyed. Lovely and fresh for her to destroy the next day. It is almost as if they think by tidying everything up, trying to fix it all that they will slowly fix her, bring her back to her old body. But their efforts are fruitless. At least they are silent in their pointless endeavours.
