ever mate bonding. As a young male, I’d been a fool. As a man in my prime, I saw the world very differently.
She was just about to drop to her knees, when the door to my room was slammed open so violently it cracked around the iron hinges. A boy, no older than four or five but already tall and muscular, as all dragonborne were, was panting and huffing heavily. His big blue eyes wide, and the whites of them bold in his pale face. Sweaty strands of silvery blond hair clung to his forehead.
“Boy!” I raged, sitting up. I’d paid the barkeep a hefty sum for the upper room in this tavern, with explicit orders not to be disturbed at any cost. I was ready to tear the hatchling in half for daring to do so, but something about his manner gave me pause.
He was grabbing onto his chest, heaving with an effort for breath, and opening and shutting his mouth as though fighting to speak.
Knocking the nymph off me so that she landed in a heap on the floor with an indignant gasp, I strutted over to the child and clamped a hand to his shoulder. “Speak, youth.”
Dragonborne had stamina for days; why was this child so out of sorts?
Trembling from head to toe, the boy uttered five words that pierced my heart like black ice.
“Wonderland. The. King. Is. Dead.”
~*~
Zelena
I sat cold, aloof, and looked neither left nor right as my carriage rolled across the cobbled streets of the village.
The procession of carriages for the king’s funeral was gaudy, garish, and unbelievably extravagant. With elephants painted from massive head to wrinkled feet in the royal colors of my house. Professional mourners, dressed in jewels and peacock feathers, walked steadily before me in a long line at least a thousand strong, wailing, crying, and beating their chests.
Royal jesters and musicians performed for the crowds who’d gathered to watch. Not, I was sure, out of any true sense of loyalty to their king. But more so for the spectacle and the show.
Painted ladies wearing crinolines and corsets and tutting men in elegantly tailored suits tossed rose petals at Charles’ casket. I looked at none of them, keeping my head tilted high and my eyes on the sky.
Somehow I’d been stuffed into a gown of deepest red, the fabric of which was stiff and thick. The corset my dresser had placed me in had narrowed my waist down so far that it was making me feel slightly dizzy and lightheaded.
I wanted nothing more than to rip the royal crown from off my head, toss it to the ground, and scream at the people to go back home. I wanted to cut this procession short, wanted to demand the gravediggers dig a hole here and now and dump Charles into it. So that I could forget him and all of this. Bury him in the past, where he belonged. I just wanted to breathe again.
My throat swelled, and my eyes grew suspiciously warm. I’d not cried in thirteen years; I wouldn’t start now.
I did not care that Charles had suddenly keeled over in the dining hall. That the King of Hearts had died of a heart attack, the circumstances of which were quite suspicious.
I did not care that the people whispered amongst themselves that I’d done it. Nor did I care to offer them any pointless platitudes, give them driveling speeches about how wonderland would grow stronger from this tragedy, blah, blah, blah.
It was all nonsense, just words that meant nothing; they’d know it and I knew it. So I sat in my carriage, and I looked at none of them. I shed not one tear.
I was cold. I was aloof. I was the Passionless Queen—as I knew they called me.
“You know, it would go a long way with the skin suits if you would just smile every so often, toss them even a measure of kindness.” Cheshire’s deep drawl snagged my attention.
Lifting a brow, I didn’t turn toward the now materialized cat sitting beside me. The beast loved to catch me up on the gossip of wonderland. I rather think he thought of me as his pet.
I almost smiled at that. But I’d not smiled in over a decade; after
She was just about to drop to her knees, when the door to my room was slammed open so violently it cracked around the iron hinges. A boy, no older than four or five but already tall and muscular, as all dragonborne were, was panting and huffing heavily. His big blue eyes wide, and the whites of them bold in his pale face. Sweaty strands of silvery blond hair clung to his forehead.
“Boy!” I raged, sitting up. I’d paid the barkeep a hefty sum for the upper room in this tavern, with explicit orders not to be disturbed at any cost. I was ready to tear the hatchling in half for daring to do so, but something about his manner gave me pause.
He was grabbing onto his chest, heaving with an effort for breath, and opening and shutting his mouth as though fighting to speak.
Knocking the nymph off me so that she landed in a heap on the floor with an indignant gasp, I strutted over to the child and clamped a hand to his shoulder. “Speak, youth.”
Dragonborne had stamina for days; why was this child so out of sorts?
Trembling from head to toe, the boy uttered five words that pierced my heart like black ice.
“Wonderland. The. King. Is. Dead.”
~*~
Zelena
I sat cold, aloof, and looked neither left nor right as my carriage rolled across the cobbled streets of the village.
The procession of carriages for the king’s funeral was gaudy, garish, and unbelievably extravagant. With elephants painted from massive head to wrinkled feet in the royal colors of my house. Professional mourners, dressed in jewels and peacock feathers, walked steadily before me in a long line at least a thousand strong, wailing, crying, and beating their chests.
Royal jesters and musicians performed for the crowds who’d gathered to watch. Not, I was sure, out of any true sense of loyalty to their king. But more so for the spectacle and the show.
Painted ladies wearing crinolines and corsets and tutting men in elegantly tailored suits tossed rose petals at Charles’ casket. I looked at none of them, keeping my head tilted high and my eyes on the sky.
Somehow I’d been stuffed into a gown of deepest red, the fabric of which was stiff and thick. The corset my dresser had placed me in had narrowed my waist down so far that it was making me feel slightly dizzy and lightheaded.
I wanted nothing more than to rip the royal crown from off my head, toss it to the ground, and scream at the people to go back home. I wanted to cut this procession short, wanted to demand the gravediggers dig a hole here and now and dump Charles into it. So that I could forget him and all of this. Bury him in the past, where he belonged. I just wanted to breathe again.
My throat swelled, and my eyes grew suspiciously warm. I’d not cried in thirteen years; I wouldn’t start now.
I did not care that Charles had suddenly keeled over in the dining hall. That the King of Hearts had died of a heart attack, the circumstances of which were quite suspicious.
I did not care that the people whispered amongst themselves that I’d done it. Nor did I care to offer them any pointless platitudes, give them driveling speeches about how wonderland would grow stronger from this tragedy, blah, blah, blah.
It was all nonsense, just words that meant nothing; they’d know it and I knew it. So I sat in my carriage, and I looked at none of them. I shed not one tear.
I was cold. I was aloof. I was the Passionless Queen—as I knew they called me.
“You know, it would go a long way with the skin suits if you would just smile every so often, toss them even a measure of kindness.” Cheshire’s deep drawl snagged my attention.
Lifting a brow, I didn’t turn toward the now materialized cat sitting beside me. The beast loved to catch me up on the gossip of wonderland. I rather think he thought of me as his pet.
I almost smiled at that. But I’d not smiled in over a decade; after
Similar Books
