Highest Rank: #98 in Fantasy | #27 projectbadboys | #138 fiction
'Hot air from their mouths entangled between the small proximity of their flushed faces. His dagger pressed dangerously into her scarlet dripping throat. Her dagger slit into the...
Queen Daeaphira descended on her throne tensely. Her ghostly face held little ease with the way her aging wrinkles pressed harshly around and under the corners of her sharp black eyes. Her forehead creased with agitation as she flattened out the velvet fabric of her explicitly detailed peach dress. The air was thin and frigid in the throne room, making breathing sharp to the lungs.
The woman perched her hands, not on her lap respectably, but rather on either arm of her golden laced chair. She held no resistance to the way her rough palms grasped the metal tightly, causing the blood to flow unevenly.
She paid little attention to her four sons who had ungracefully entered the room, inviting a rush of frigid breeze. Rather, her gaze stayed forward and her head held high. The men made no effort to begin any form of conversation with her while they took their seats one by one, near their Queen.
Before her stood a dove.
Its milky wings flapped in distress as it attempted to claw its way out of the silver cage. Squeaks of fear echoed through the hollowed silent room. The smacks of the metal against the wooden floors as the bird screamed for help brought serenity to the Queen. She felt the heat of her blood rush through her like a waterfall of ecstasy. She raised her bare arm with certainty.
Bang.
Her lids squeezed shut in tranquility; her lungs burning with a blazing fire that couldn't have felt better. White became red and silver became stained as blood slid across the floors, staining the mahogany wood. The air, which once smelt of cinnamon, now stunk of rusted iron.
Bang.
Two large doors assailed the walls. A malicious grin spread over the Queen's lips as her eyes feasted on the sight before her. Her eldest son placed himself stiffly in the center of the room, his lower body adorned with peach-colored silks. He knelt before his mother; his queen. Sweat slipped over his pale forehead onto his clothless chest. The Queen scoffed; who was he to show a sign of weakness?
The room was pin-drop silent with the exception of the eldest son's labored breath. The woman faced her right to catch a glimpse of the empty throne that sat beside her. Every inch of the chair screamed delicate beauty with its details of feathers and golden roses. She pressed the edges of her calloused fingers against the flaking skin of her lips before removing them and placing her entire palm over the left arm of the throne. A kiss for you, my dear.
A caught breath in the throat of the eldest son floated through the air as his mother rose from her own throne with the dignity and grace of a ruthless ruler.
First, she made her way towards the cage. Her heels splat in fresh blood as she wrapped her fingers around the dead bird. With a hard expression, she faced her son who knew better than to do the same. His eyes pointed at the wood below him, barely blinking.
She basked in his affliction as she neared him with her dress dragging blood across the floors, painting them with her glee.
The lifeless eyes of the dove brought elation to her lungs while she squeezed both hands around its body. Blood gushed out the gaping bullet hole and splashed over the head of her eldest son.
Drip Drip Drip.
With little hesitation, the Queen threw out her hand and ripped the skin of his cheek, coating her pointy narrow nails in the blood of both her son and the bird. "Rise." She said. And rise he did. She painfully gripped his maroon-stained face between her fingers, forcing him to meet her sharp gaze.
Her eyelids fluttered sightly as her other hand raised to under her nose where she inhaled the fumes of grief and agony.
The shrill call of agony bounced off the walls as she dug her fist into his chest, retrieving her prize: his heart. The light of his soul dribbled from his dark eyes while elation painted hers.
She released her arm from his body. It flung against the walls, wacking off onto the floor with a quick thunk. She felt no remorse, no pain; only power. Black became a prominent color as the tissue of the heart rot in her hands.
Her other four sons watched in horror and distraught as she placed the blackening yet still-beating heart in the cage where the dove once lay.
The Queen smiled. "Rhiannon, my dear."
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