Long Live the ..........? [ONC 2024]

Chapter One: Rosamund I

Roz pushed the bridge of her little round blackout spectacles further up her nose and stifled a yawn. Her head was pounding as the Archbishop droned on about her late father's impressive accomplishments. It was not the first royal funeral she had attended nursing a hangover, and she doubted it would be the last.

From her vantage point in the royal pews. Roz's saffron eyes scanned the pristine walls of the Sacred Temple of the Holy Mallard. Dark green on top and brown at the bottom with a thick white stripe to separate them. The whole temple would have been dark if it were not for the enormous stained glass windows that went from the smooth stone floor to the ornately painted ceiling high above.

Like the ceiling, the windows depicted various scenes from the sacred scriptures. Displaying the seven great virtues of the most holy drake and his flock. In the ornately carved pews sat a solemnly dressed mixture of dignitaries, nobles, and ambassadors. All were here to pay their respects and to see if their names had been added to any potential list of honours or, better still, the late king's will.

The royal pews were no exception. A myriad of assorted royal mourners, the women in their black silk couture dresses with matching mourning veils. Some were weeping, others sniffing as the Archbishop's monotonous address grew evermore dire. How the old fellow had got such an important public speaking role was beyond her. But one glance in the Queen Dowager's direction reminded her why.

A few of the younger girls sniggered as they passed notes to each other from under their veils. Only the glare from an eagle-eyed nurse stopped their game, but not for long. Roz could not care less. She wanted her bed, herbal infusion, and an ice pack. But duty came first, and the dreaded wake came after. Or maybe not so dreaded. Hair of the Dog was a pretty good hangover cure, so it was said.

The Archbishop continued to drone on about the king's soul being taken up into the arms of the great mother hen to the sacred lake in the sky. While the congregation responded with soft solemn quacks at the end of each stanza. The Archbishop was a short, portly fellow, whose voluminous brown robes covered his little round belly. As a sign of devotion, he dyed what remained of his hair dark green. He wore a white collar around his neck and on his head a golden mitre that resembled a duck's beak.

At the end of his speech, the Archbishop gradually descended from the Pulpit, while the choir stood and sang a haunting lament. A priest handed him a smouldering censer, and he reverently waved it about as he approached the king's coffin. The royal standard covered the coffin of King Sylvanus III, which they had placed in front of the royal pews. The smell of the sickly sweet incense was so nauseating, Roz thought she was going to throw up over one of the weeping mistresses sitting in the front row with her former stepmother. But took slow deep breaths until the putrid smell was no longer caught in her throat and nostrils.

The new queen dowager sat serenely before her husband's coffin. For the next three months, she would be in seclusion, along with the king's official mistresses. In case one of them was expecting a baby boy who could become the next heir. In her case, seclusion would be a family affair, as Roz's father had made mistresses of all of her sisters and a few of her cousins as well. Making her kinfolk the most powerful family in the Kingdom.

The Royal fanfare blasted through Roz's fragile brain, snapping her back to attention. Slowly the pallbearers of the Royal guard lifted the King's coffin and carried it out of the temple. The Queen Dowager led the company of mourners outside. Roz was swept along by the wave of black-clad assorted relatives meandering towards the funeral pyre.

Outside the temple, the sun slapped Roz square in the face as if reminding her of the previous night's shenanigans. Not that she minded. Roz stifled a grin as she remembered that barman she'd snuck into the royal apartments and wondered if he was still there.

By now, the coffin had been placed on the pyre in the palace gardens by the pallbearers. The stage was now set for the last act of the funeral proceedings. The great sea of mourners now dispersed to their respective places, leaving Roz, the Dowager Queen, the official mistresses and their daughters in front of the pyre. Finally, the Archbishop strolled up with a couple of green-haired priests to perform the committal speech.

He looked Roz up and down, smirking slightly. "I'd have thought you would have changed by now, Princess. Surely you do not want to spoil that pretty dress of yours."

"Why, is there another funeral in the near future? Yours perhaps?"

The Archbishop's face dropped. "I only meant, Your Highne......"

"Your Grace is the correct term for Queen Regent, Archbishop. And what do you expect me to change into? My birthday suit?"

The Archbishop recoiled at the thought, and the two priests sniggered at his dressing down. He bowed slightly as he tried to reclaim his dignity. "Your Grace, of course. I shall now give the final committal address, then I'll hand over to you."

Having made her position clear, Roz smiled thinly, and the Archbishop held his arms aloft to begin the committal speech. Roz's former stepmother was now standing beside her. Under her light silken veil and widow's weeds, Queen Annis was a tall, thin young woman. Her long blonde hair, along with the mistresses who all presumably went to the same hairdressers, was styled into tight, bouncing curls. She jabbed Roz in the ribs with one of her skinny elbows. "Rosamund, how dare you speak to my uncle in such a manner? You need him onside if you are going to secure the throne," she hissed.

Roz maintained her gaze in the pyre's direction. She did not like the direction the wind was currently blowing, as the pyre was a little too close to the Beige palace. If a window was carelessly left open, the ash would surely damage the paintwork and even some of the pristine furniture. "Throne is already mine by right. It is just a case of dotting the i's and crossing the t's."

"Well, in three months we will know for sure, won't we? You do know how he died, don't you?"

"What? He was only with one of you? I'm surprised he could tell the difference. But don't worry, I'll find a nice nunnery to house you all in. I think the green will really highlight those curls."

"You flaming little bitch!"

The Archbishop cleared his throat before Roz could reply, bringing both women's attention back to the proceedings.

"And now Queen Regent Rosamund shall send her beloved father into the mother hen's loving embrace!" He glanced back at Roz. "Showtime!"

Everyone close to Roz stepped back as if she was infected. Well, many considered her genetics to be more of a curse than a blessing. Roz sighed and removed her veil, squinting as she removed the blackout spectacles. She revealed her rich amber eyes. A courtier nervously ran up and took them from her before he scurried back to his place. Everyone on the concourse held their breath as Roz transformed.

The dress she had been wearing split at the seams and burnt away as her paled skin took on an amber tone and scales formed that matched her eyes. Now she was a beautiful dragon. But to Roz, changing felt natural and free. She was a dragon, like her mother. King Sylvanus's first love and queen and she never let her stepmothers forget it. It was her human form that felt alien to her. Like a walking prison containing the fire of her true nature within.

With two short blasts of fire, she had reduced the pyre completely to ash. Several courtiers then ran forward as Roz transformed back into a human. Quickly erecting a screen and helping her into another set of mourning clothes. But by the time Roz stepped out from behind the screen, everyone was already returning to the Beige Palace for the Wake. 

(w/c 1389)