Dead Queen

By Ashlyn Coffey

The butler announced the entry of my royal council. Seated on the broad stone chair at the head of my long, empty dinner table-- the remnants of a banquet for one, including a golden goblet for the queen's wine, lay cast in grey light from the tinted window panes--sits in exhaustion, the queen. The stone emanates a cold ambiance, breathing its chill into the room, though unnecessary, seeing as the Queen's chilled to and through the marrow that inhabits her bones. Rumors circulated that she was born of ice due to the chill that followed her entry into a room. The still stagnant air taps at the glass, mirroring the rap-tap-tap of ringed fingers drumming the table in idleness.

The storm approaches with a noticeable lack of purpose, strolling through the sky as the council strolls toward the queen-- slumped, hand over her eyes to shield the expression plastered on her face caused by those who give her headaches or the minimal light from the sky that worsened her headache, maybe both.

The council failed to bow, for they need not. The queen holds no status, seeing as the panel rules the country, using her as a puppet on a forever-running string; no number of knots or kinks in the string belays the origin from which it reaches: the royal council forced upon her by her late father, the late king.

"Queen Amarilla," council member Horgrod states with a wicked smirk, hands clasped behind his back. He boasts an aged white beard of supposed wisdom, eyes born from those whose unscrupulous deeds become them, and a dagger in his pocket. Without these attributes, Horgrod holds no intimidation factor, though, with the attributes, he is a reckoning force. His sway extends far and wide over the queen and the kingdom's council, merchants, artisans, historians, educators, and peasants. The ball of string he casts upon everyone knots together at one point. That point is him.

"Yes, Councilman Horgrod?"

"My dear Queen, I am in the deepest of debts to you. Your grace and equity kept us poor councilmen afloat." The rest of the councilman's mindless goons grumble in agreement, bobbing and nodding heads full of air. "Our gratitude extends past the roots this kingdom was built on."

Horgrod kneels next to the Queen and places his lustful lips of lies on the top of her hand. Poison seems to bleed from tainted flesh to the pure skin of Amarilla's hand. Feelings of corruption, greed, and the lust for power ring through her body, racing from the point of contact to the queen's heart, soul, and very being. She knows what Horgrod is and what he can and will do to have absolute power, but she is helpless, powerless, and hopeless to stop his advances.

"What do you want, Horgrod?" Exasperation always follows Horgrod's extensive, overly poetic statements and deceitful advances.

"Your attendance at the councilmen's congregation is mandatory." Horgrod dropped her hand as if saying goodbye to a dead lover with whom he held no enduring affection. Cold stone met limp flesh, and the slap resounded as Horgrod and the rest of the council began to depart.

"No."

The stagnant air became electrified as tension arose from both parties. Outside, the storm, sensing the energy, began its race toward the source, lightning striking against the grand stone fortress and surrounding foliage. Inside the fortress, lighting punctuated an argument quickly escalating.

"Pardon, my Queen? Did you say something?"

"I did, Councilman Horgord. I said no. Need I repeat myself again?" Queen Amarilla began her slow ascension from the stone throne. Her hands braced against the table as she elevated herself to a stature that intimidates all men and baffles all women, a stature taller than all men in the kingdom.

"You dare defy me, you wretch! You're nothing but a figurehead to this kingdom! I rule this land! I supply the laws and speeches that you recite. I provide the food, water, liquor and wines, horses and wood, homes, and shacks for those rats we call our citizens. You are nothing without me!" Horgrod turns red, his hands unclasp from his back, his hair falls out of place, and his face contorts to red fury. The form of Horgrod's slumped, heaving shoulder radiated heat. The stone walls radiated a chill.

"The answer is still no, Councilman."

"I will rule this land for as long as your imbecilic father allows. You can't replace us," Horgrod gestures to the men behind him, "Once a monarch has their council, there is no replacing them--"

"Unless that monarch dies."

The silence that fell afterward sucked the energy from within the room and expelled it out to the storm. The lightning hastened and increased in ferocity. It cracked against the glass, almost fracturing it completely.

"You wouldn't. Think of what your father would want."

“A toast to you, Horgord. For remaining by my side long enough to supply me with the very thing I needed to end you." Amarilla hoists the golden chalice into the sky. The lighting, being called to it, strikes again at the windows. The structure shakes in protest. The queen takes a sip. "Oh, to drink poison from a cup of gold." She sighs in satisfaction. "You know, Horgrod, the only good my father did for this land is one particular law that will be abided by after my death. 'All living council members of a recently deceased monarch should be put to an immediate death.' That wicked man wanted the certainty of no witnesses, no loose ends, if you must, for he knew very well that information could be bought. It's only a matter of price. Isn't that correct, gentlemen?"

Horgord snapped his head to look back at his fellow council members. "You! You bought into this wild woman's ravings, these lunatic fantasies! We were going to rule together where we could get any amount of money you so desire, and you choose the money from the very woman you all swore to kill!"

"Like I said, Horgrod, everyone has a price. Their price was not money; no, I stripped them of that, but rather, a full pardon for all their crimes as your accomplice, and your dishonorable, painful death for treachery against this kingdom." Amarilla toasted the cup one last time and downed it in a gulp. The taste was bitter, like that of almonds. The aftertaste of honey couldn't mask the foretaste of death. Her every exhale threatened to be her last as the world closed around her. She saw her father. She saw her mother, and she saw her brother, then she saw herself. She saw all the times she never stood up for herself, the times she wished to be stronger. A surge of satisfaction and happiness swelled from the depths of her rotting organs, burning away to fuel the forever-starving acid. She collapsed into her throne as Horgrod rushed to her side.

Amarillas's last stand and the final choice--the choice that provides control. The one thing in her life she could govern was when she died and by whom. Amarilla knew Hogrod needed her more than she needed life. If she reigns over this land and sits on its throne for a day longer, her people will die. She can't stop Horgrod's rule unless she stops his life. To cease the corruption infiltrating and poisoning the lands of her kingdom, she needs to end her reign. If she couldn't escape her fate as queen, she would make sure Horgrod could never escape his fate, execution.

She smiled up at the cold, cracking ceiling as she choked on her bile. Amarilla died with a smile and a wholeness in her heart she had never held before.