My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

xxxviii. the queen and the damned

sinner
// the world crumbles in his hands, and all of heaven looks on—judges the beginning of the end with cool contempt. he has suffered much, but agony is no excuse, and he will bear witness to the cold wrath of justice.

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Anticipation gathered like rain water. It pooled in every crack and crevice, muddy and dark in color, and as cold as the winter air. Your feet sat in it, and when it froze, you would be fixed to the floor, but the ice would not stop there. No, it would spread like a disease, a sickness crawling with all the finesse of a spider up your legs. It would settle in your blood and bones and flesh; it would make you into stone: a statue in a room forgotten, destined for neglect—for the company of dust and silence alone.

Edite's voice echoed, but its ripples were as large as waves, and despite all your struggling, you would sink all the same. The mountains of Ceorid did not tower above you. They sprawled below, and King Orelus had chained you to them. Down they dragged you—down to the depths of Mehreus's cage, to the ends of a wasteland as vast as the sky. The world was dark, there, and cold as ice, and the only sound was that of your own heartbeat, stuttering in your ears—eroded by the push and pull of the apathetic waves.

What life could you have known?

Perhaps she would have made you a little nightingale, joyful of heart and little chest bursting with the notes of a tune that was yours alone to sing. You would perform your part with earnest delight—the wonderful grace that belonged to sincere contentment—and you would not stumble or falter. A life spent in service to Edite? How good and right; Qodes did not stand for all the gods.

What joy might have been yours?

Orelus had stolen your destiny. He had plucked it out of your fingers, and you had sat and watched him all the while. Quiet. No speaking—no objection or request for pause. He had taken it, and you had not doubted whether it had ever been his to have. Life as a queen of men was your fate—was supposed to be the destiny for which you kept along—yet Ceorid was not at all the place for which you had been made, and to its throne you had been unjustly bound.

Orelus had known the life for which you'd been destined, and still, he'd married you. He'd deceived you—in the temple, in the bed—and he had said nothing. Nothing. How long would he have continued in his deception, pleasantly complacent in the perpetuation of your mistaken fate—eager not to correct you, happier still that you remain his wife and queen, that you bear him children with eyes and faces like his.

Had Father known? Had Mother? Had they seen and not cared? Perhaps they'd considered other worries first against your own, but could they not still have told you? A word in passing. One true, honest warning to strip you of your ignorance? So that you might not be such a fool; so that you might not waste so much energy sewing sense into your fate.

Augur Molevri had tried to warn you. Uncertain, he'd called you. So you were. Uncertain and amorphous. The water of the sea, always pushing and pulling, but now you were frozen, and an artisan with hands calloused from battle had fashioned you into the statue of a queen.

Molevri had fallen into the arms of sleep, and Caretaker Druasis had squeezed another chair into the room. Isil stood behind you, and if not for his hand upon your shoulder, your lungs may have turned to stone. The curls of your hair tickled your cheeks and neck, but you did not try yet to fix them. You could feel Edite's fingers still, running through your locks, smoothing and brushing and mussing all at once.

She knew, and yet, she had done nothing.

Nothing.

Apologies, she'd given, so sweet and flat. A hollow tune, but did you not adore the sound? Edite, O stork of feathers white, sing again. Confer your apologies once more; tell your darling nightingale how awfully you lament her fate.