The King is dead.
The whispers started immediately after the royal funeral. The Queen sat at the front of the church, her lovely face obscured by a widow's veil, occasionally dabbing daintily at her eyes.
King Reginald was known as a fair king. After decades of strained relations, he had brokered peace with the neighboring kingdom, resulting in his political marriage.
The Queen's reputation was dark, even before the King's death. It was rumored she had bartered with demons to obtain unearthly beauty and power.
I was never one to put stock in such fairy stories, but I'd seen the King's bedchamber before they removed the body. I was on housekeeping duty a few doors away when the cry went up.
They'd already extinguished the blaze. Our dear King lay charred in his bed, contorted and grotesque. They claimed a spark from the fireplace had struck the bedcurtains, but it was clear to anyone who saw the scene that the King himself was the source of the blaze, the fire spreading out from the center of the bed.
I knew better than to say anything. Those who did quickly found themselves unemployed, or worse. Who cared if a few worthless servants died, after all?
The number of subsequent deaths was chilling. Some fell ill and died, but an inordinate number perished in mysterious fires.
I'd always been skilled at self-preservation, though. I was the only one of my siblings to survive to adulthood. I'd survived poverty, plagues, and predators, both human and beast, to find my way to employment at the castle. I knew how to spot an opportunity.
With every death, more servants left the castle. It wasn't long until the Queen required a new handmaid, and I knew just how to ingratiate myself to her.
I gave her names. The first as proof of loyalty, and then more to further earn her trust. Now, I stand at her side as the last possible witness begs at her feet. I watch as my Queen points her delicate finger at the wretch, dancing fire leaping to her target.
I'm able to see firsthand why they call her Queen Ella of the Cinders.
God help us all.
~
A link to the challenge: Fucked Up Fairytales.
About the Creator
Catsidhe
Pronounced Cat-she: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat-s%C3%ACth
A pseudonym, of course,
To allow for open discourse,
Words channeling my lifeforce
- Runner-Up in Whispering Woods Challenge
The Secret Keys
The deadly inferno tore through the house as though it were only made of matches and gasoline; its bright orange glow lit up the street in the dead of night and brought all the neighbors out of their own houses in pure shock. A whole home and lifetime of memories were now gone. Sure, the people who once lived there luckily made it out unscathed—even their beloved dog Bella and cat Gerald managed to escape—but everything they once knew was destroyed.
By Jackie Barrows2 days ago in Fiction
There is a Thin Line Between Tears of Sorrow and Tears of Joy
I remember when my mother passed away. After the tears from the initial shock, our family sat in the living room and shared memories. We talked about her love and compassion toward others, the lessons she taught us about honesty, and how she taught us the importance of respecting ourselves and others. Then we started sharing memories that made us smile and eventually, each of us began to relax and tell stories that made us laugh.
By Brenda Mahler7 days ago in Humor
Comments (2)
That was a freaking good twist! Loved your story!
Yikes, hell hath no fury as bad as her!