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The Widow Queen took crown long ago, in a time when the lush green of the trees and the towering majesty of the mountains were not myth and memory. Elders of the kingdom whispered in hidden corners that the late King Gérard took the life of the land to his grave. Murdered by cold-blooded assassin, mourned by all, the throne lay vacant for the Queen to assume, and assume she did, with bared fang and claw—the quiet, kind-eyed wife the kingdom once knew transformed, seemingly overnight, into something relentless and merciless.
Something sinister.
No-one was quite sure what caused this change in demeanor. There were many of those that believe the Queen, overwrought with grief, brought it upon herself to see that the unknown assassin lived a miserable life, no matter who else suffered. There was speculation of abuse, that the reserved nature of the Queen was mistaken for forced compliance, and the murder of her husband became a freedom that, upon when was bestowed to her, she ruled with an iron fist to show that no one would ever harm her again.
But then there were the quietest whispers of all, no louder than a field-mouse, that suggest something darker. The handmaidens that tended to her, the servants that cleaned the halls, cooked her food, abided to her every whim, all knew that she locked herself away in her room for hours—and upon concerned inquiry of her health, she replied with a murderous glint in her eye that, if they dare ask again, they should be put to guillotine.
Those quiet whispers grew more frantic with time, once the servants began to notice something strange: the Widow Queen’s hair remained luscious and thick, a dark raven-black that cascaded down far past her shoulders. Her cheeks, though paler than before, stayed smooth and unwrinkled. Her joints did not ache. Her movements did not slow.
Simply put, the Widow Queen did not age.
Rumors of witchcraft—the taboo, nauseating concept of necromancy, even—began to circulate throughout the castle. Her handmaidens noted how cold her skin felt to the touch, even on a warm, humid summer’s day. One knight noted how slowly she bled when accidentally cut by a dinner knife. Strange. Unnatural. Unhuman. Dead. Corpse-like. But no one spoke up, for their fear of the guillotine—and whatever powers preserved her—was greater than the fear of their Queen.
Except for one.
A quiet, good man: Damion, the Widow Queen’s advisor. He swore under King Gérard to forever serve the throne, to preserve its good judgment and sanity. And, to fulfill his duty, there came a day of action.
The Queen, he concluded, was ill. By what—curses, hexes, magicks, poison—he did not know, but he did know that this was not the same woman that he watched rule alongside King Gérard. And so out of goodwill and last resort, he sent letter by pigeon to the only one he knew that could help.
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High Cleric Angela Ziegler’s legacy was that of saving lives. She bound herself to a pact with the gods long ago that, in exchange for her service to never cease to heal the wounded and comfort the lost—she would be given a plentiful bounty of time. This pact was not unheard of among the High Clerics, but was reserved for those with only the strongest of wills and kindest of hearts, for it was known that extended lifetimes corrupted those that could not resist the charms of evil.
She was by no means immortal, but something close to it.
High Cleric Angela Ziegler’s reputation was so well-known throughout the land, the lay people began to call her Angela the Merciful. She was a source of comfort, no doubt, for those affected by the tyrant rule of the Widow Queen—and when they cursed the Queen’s name and shook their fists, she reminded them that all is not always as it seems.
And so when a messenger pigeon flitted through her bedroom window, she knew she must make haste.
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“She is in her chambers,” Damion said, “and knows of your arrival. You may enter when ready, but please do not keep her waiting.”
Angela nodded, gathering her long, flowing white robes in one hand. The other gripped her staff, and she tapped her fingers against it. “Is there anything else I must know?”
Damion pursed his lips, and looked in either direction of the corridor before answering, “She can be…particular. And she is unstable. If you feel threatened in any way, do not hesitate to call.”
She considered this, and nodded again. “Thank you. I believe I am ready.”
Damion inhaled and knocked on the door twice. “Your Majesty? Our guest is here.”
“Very well,” the Widow Queen answered, “send her in.”
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“Well, well, well. High Cleric Angela the Merciful. It has been too long.”
The Widow Queen regarded her on a luxurious, deep purple chaise, one leg bent, the other extended; one arm draping lazily over the side, like a cat, and the other cupping a glass of red wine, its stem trapped between her long, lithe fingers. Her raven-black hair curtained her face and tumbled down her shoulders, where it blended with her dark robes that clung to her body like shadows and flowed over her knees like spilled ink before they finally pooled, thick and full, on the floor.
But what rested atop her head was what caught Angela’s attention the most: a dazzling, cruel crown made of gold and rubies red as sin. With each gem set in the metal, a long, golden talon extended upward from it. With the pieces put together, the Widow Queen was something temptingly dangerous, declaring her rule with precious blood and fang.
“And don’t you look the part,” the Queen smirked, as if she knew exactly what Angela was thinking. “All garbed in white, blonde hair flowing free…why, I think all you are missing is a pair of feathery wings. Truly un ange.”
“It’s a shame the gods didn’t gift them to me when I made my pact, isn’t it?” Angela replied.
“Mmm.” The Queen looked her up and down again. “Indeed.” The rubies flashed and glimmered in her direction, and it was almost as though the Queen looked at her withf eight eyes instead of two.
There was something…unsettling about it.
“But,” Angela continued, sternness nor softness lost, “I believe I was brought here for reasons other than light talk.”
The Queen snorted. “Oh, that Damion. Thinking there is something wrong with me. He is stuck in ways of old, and his mind is surely still muddled with grief from the loss of Gérard.” She smiled, baring her teeth again for Angela to see. “Come,” she purred, and gestured to the open spot at the end of the chaise, “sit with me.”
Knowing better than to decline the Queen’s request—for right now, anyway—Angela walked and sat where she indicated. The Queen’s eyes stayed trained on her. Unease twisted in her chest. She stamped it down. “So you no longer grieve for Gérard?”
The Widow Queen sipped her wine, closing her eyes as she savored the flavor. “Mmm, non. I have moved on, as all of us should. Lingering over such things for too long is a waste of time.” She opened her eyes, and smiled at Angela in a way that made her wary. “The dead are dead. Leave them in the ground. La vie continue. Life goes on, ma chérie.”
It seemed…off, how the Queen could throw Gérard’s name to the side, cast away like an old rag. How languid she was in her grief. Though the Widow Queen denied it, Damion was right—there was something wrong. “And what do you feel?” she probed gently.
“Feel?” The Queen tipped her head back and laughed mirthlessly, exposing an unblemished, bare column of skin. It was in this moment that Angela realized her position relative to the Queen, who rested stretched and relaxed on the chaise, and how close she was to her exposed legs, how she could trail her gaze up, up, up, over the swell of her breasts and—
The Widow Queen sighed. Danger laced her grin. “I feel as if this shallow, meaningless conversation continues any longer, I might just throw myself from the balcony.” Suddenly the Queen’s eyes sharpened like knife-points, and Angela restrained the urge to stiffen in her seat.
“If I did, ma chérie, would you save me?”
Was that a cry for help? Angela, wide-eyed, gripped her staff and remained silent.
“What is your plan, petite mouche?” the Widow Queen hissed as she leaned forward. “Will you wave your hand and cast a spell of light and bienveillance, drawing the very evil from my soul? Or will you gather me in your arms like you would an orphan child and cradle me against your chest, so that I might tell you all my woes?” Her lips curled up into a snarl. “I am neither the demon nor the orphan, mon ange. I am perfectly capable of my own devices. I do not need you.”
In that moment, Angela understood.
Rising from her seat, she responded without wavering, “And I am neither a savior nor a saint. I will not force my hand where it is not wanted. Thank you for your time, Your Majesty. I will take my leave.”
Before she could see the Queen’s expression, she turned on her heel and strode towards the door, ready to open it and call for escort—
“…Wait.”
Angela paused, hand still curled around the knob.
The silence between them stretched slowly, till it was thin and near ready to break. The Widow Queen’s gaze bored into her back, begging her to turn around, Angela knew, but she resisted. If she gave in, the opportunity would be lost. The Queen needed to be presented with a choice. This needed to be hers to own.
The rustling of fabric was the first thing to break the silence. Then, the soft clink of glass on a table, the padding of bare feet on the stone floor.
When Angela turned her head to follow the Queen’s movements, she found her standing before a large mirror. Ovular and ornate, its frame was made of the finest metals and costliest jewels. The Widow Queen stared. Tired. Empty. Like there was something there, draining the life from her. She shifted her gaze to meet Angela’s in the mirror. Begging. Please.
Where fled her anger and spite? Where fled the bite of her words? Where fled that dark seduction?
Where fled the woman that lazily, languidly casted Gérard to the side?
Carefully, Angela approached the Queen until she stood by her side, silent, but vigilant. The Queen returned to staring at the mirror—almost through it, as if there was something farther beyond the wall.
“What does it tell you?” Angela finally asked, nodding toward the Queen’s reflection.
“That I belong to it.”
Alarm. “Your Majesty?”
The Queen turned towards Angela, stepped closer to her, curled her arm around Angela’s back, fisted the fabric there. “Please,” she whispered, “free me.”
And what do you feel?
“I…” Angela bit her lip, looked down at the floor, at the way that their robes intermingled, dark night against harsh white. The sky and a star.
Cold hands found her waist. “Please, Angela, mon ange…free me, if only for one night...”
A very different Widow Queen now stood before her: one that wailed with loneliness, who hid behind a mask of confidence and allure to manipulate those who stood against her. I belong to it. Angela did not know of what it the Queen spoke—of herself? Of something greater?—but she did know that she was reaching out in the dark, attempting to grasp at something, anything.
The Queen drew her closer still, pleas on soft whispers slipping from her lips. Their foreheads touched now, and one hand came up to stroke her cheek with a reverence that could not be fabricated. “Please, mon ange, please…”
Angela forced herself to look at the Queen, to take in the arch of her brow, the sweep of her lashes, the fullness of her lips, the conflict swirling in her eyes. The anger, pain, and defeat that overwrought her. And so with slow, purposeful movements, Angela gently grasped the crown and removed it from her head.
She stroked her fingers through the Queen’s hair and cupped her cheek, and made a promise she knew she could never keep.
“Only for one night.”