The Lost Queen

 The woods are forbidden.

It's said that if you step one foot inside of the brambles, you might as well have taken a thousand. You are instantly lost, then you die. It's simple, and the youngest child knows the rules. There is a queen there, lost a thousand years ago, but she is fated to live for a thousand more. She is bitter and cruel but the villagers must love her because she is their queen.

She lives in a castle made out of thorns and bark and rot. She hides herself in a cloak made of beetles and a mask of blackened bark. Her hair is as smooth as an oil slick, and her eyes are yellow, the color of poisonous frogs. On the darkest nights, she turns into a carrion bird and follows those doomed to die. On the deepest of winters she shifts into a black dog and howls a sad song, spilling her sadness into the woods. Her heart is cold and frozen and black. And yet the villagers love her in the way that one loves thunderstorms. They fear her, and sometimes fear and love aren't that different.

She is made of rotten wood and evil, the villagers say. They pretend that she was made by the devil, but a few of the oldest and wisest know that she was once a fair queen. Her danger is as old as the wood, and every child knows it.

Her tale was forgotten, and her new realm slipped into shadows and memory.

Then her castle was taken over.

A distant cousin assumed the throne. He grew old, claimed a wife, and bore a son. Then his time expired and his son took over. The memory of the commoners grew short and impatient, ruled through fun and fear. The royal balls became annual, a way to tide over the citizens, coincidentally landing on the night the old queen died. The new kings assumed the thrones and bore sons and daughters to rule. Until now.

The current royal family lives in fear as well. The king forbids his only son from going outside the castle's walls. The king named the boy Dante, and he loved him in the way that he loved his royal treasury. He was an asset, nothing more, and certainly nothing to be loved. Dante grew with a mind for scheming, knees to be bruised, and hands for taking food from the chef's kitchens. He was a thin boy, with a flop of dark hair and a smile that told his caretakers to watch their pockets. Dante grew up in front of his room's windows, his eyes grabbing every detail, not wanting to miss anything.

The king still longs to live outside of his castle, so once a year, on midsummer, the castle's gates open for the nobles and rich and those who slide in unknown. His son was never allowed to go, his youth being the kings excuse. But the boy is now fifteen, and it can be excused no longer. He doesn't care for dancing, but he does yearn of a breath of the outside world.

He waits behind the great velvet curtains above the front door, watching the shining helmets of the guards below them. From his window perch, he can see a mass of glittering dresses, dark suits, and bejeweled masks. He grins, his eyes hungry. Below him, the guards nod once, then heave at the doors. Suddenly Dante's world is that much bigger.

He climbs down, in that moment, more cat than boy, and he is among a teeming crowd of birds, dragons, and predators. They shine and glitter, preening and laughing, eyes glinting dangerously behind vibrant masks. He basks in their glow, overwhelmed and stunned. He shakes himself like a dog, removing his stupor and slips through the crowded doorway. The door opened further, the creak of heavy wood heard over the chatter of guests.

Then he makes a decision.

In an instant, he is out. The night air fills his lungs and exhilarates him, more potent than any rush of emotions. His world expands and blossoms, giving him wings and a purpose. He laughs then, giddy and red faced. He pushes between the excited revelers, and into the town. He turns and breathes in and out, laughing to himself as he is bombarded by sights and sounds. The town is his. The streets are filled with women holding their skirts out of the mud and refuse, gentlemen making their way to the castle, and carts full of hot food and glittering tokens. He runs, slipping between gauzy skirts and silken coats. A shout rings out, his heart skipping a beat. He turns.