Queen's Light

The Sword

Dinners were always either bright and cheery or melancholy and heavy, with no grey area between.

The Queen much preferred the light and merry suppers, but on those occasions when things were not so cheerful, she did not attempt to lighten the mood. It was as though the sorrowful days were needed to balance out the happy ones, to remind them of the true worth of joy.

It was one of the more somber nights. The Bard plucked out a slow, mournful tune on the lute that never left her side, and most of the dinner guests stared into nothingness with forgotten goblets in their hands. Even the downcast Seneschal seemed more morose than usual, if such an occurrence could be so. 

The Queen gently placed her silverware beside her plate, having hardly touched her food. The palace cooks were expertly skilled, and had outdone themselves as per usual, but even she could not bring herself to enjoy the dish when none of the others were eating. So, taking her napkin from her lap and meticulously folding it, she broke an oath. 

"All right," she said. "What is it that troubles everyone so?"

All eyes snapped to her, as though surprised she would break the fragile silence. Even the stony-eyed Assassin seemed shocked out of a reverie. 

The Queen lifted a brow. "Well? Have any of thee an answer? Or shall I die of waiting until I have received one?"

The Knight Conri, seated on the Queen's left, tilted her head. "My Queen, I believe it is safe to say that we are all merely...tired. It has been a day long and trying, what with the Tourney's end."

The Queen scanned the eyes of those seated around her. Of course, she suspected there was more. There was always more behind the words they spoke. They were misfits. It was a commonality among them.

"Very well," she said. "In that case, I am certain that no one would argue against an early end to our evening."

No one spoke.

"Wonderful." The Queen stood, straightening her crimson skirts. "I shall see thee all tomorrow."

She remained where she was as the others stood and bowed, while servants appeared to take their plates -- most of which were still laden with food -- and push in their chairs after them. She waited, watching the others retreat to their respective chambers, until she was alone in the dining hall. 

Since the entry she had made in her journal the other day, she found that her old memories had returned to haunt her. She could, of course, trick the others into believing that nothing out of the ordinary bothered her, but she could not trick herself. Despite her hopes of writing out what she could never speak of aloud relieve her of her inhibitions, there was still something within her that nagged her. She felt that there was something she had to do, something she had not done in a very long time. She felt bereft, and she unfortunately knew exactly what it would take to be rid of that emptiness.

Spinning on her heel, Rhiannon made her way to her own chambers. They were not the largest chambers in the castle -- the largest being currently unoccupied, though she was entertaining the notion of having them converted into something else -- but they did conceal something she considered even more precious than the royal crown. 

A door, hidden in the multiple bookshelves of her spacious sitting room, led into a dark set of stone steps. Those, in turn, led down a dark hall that opened in an abandoned war room, circular in shape, with the only source of light being a single candelabra set into a curved opening in the far wall. 

Retreating first into her bedchambers to remove her heavy gown and jewelry, replacing them with a tunic and pants and a sturdy pair of leather boots, Rhiannon made her way into the secret room, dreading what she prepared to do. 

In this forgotten ready room was a single mannequin, dressed in armor that still bore scratches and burns from a time lost to history. Surrounding the walls beside the mannequin were racks of weapons that had not been sharpened for years -- swords, daggers, axes, maces, bows and their respective arrows, throwing knives, and bladed stars. 

Rhiannon ran a hand through her shoulder-length tangles, recalling a time when her mother called her hair "golden brown". 

Not all of the weapons were her own; in fact, only one of them had been her trusted companion throughout the majority of her life. A sword, with a hilt composed of two intertwined dragons and a blade of reddened steel. She reached out and lifted it, marveling at its perfect balance after so much time of disuse. 

She had vowed never to even look at this blade ever again. She had sworn she would lock all of these things away and never think of them again.

And yet she was here. Reliving it all. She could hear the screams echoing across the valley. She could smell the blood and the urine and the smoke and the anguish. She could see the dying soldier in her arms, reaching out to her to whisper in her ear, to tell her that he wanted only to see his wife and child again, just one more time. She could feel the blood on her hands, and she remembered a time when she looked up and watched the sunset as the world crashed and burned and screamed and raged around her. 

She remembered wanting to die. 

The sword clanged against the suit of armor. Sweat poured down her back. She hadn't realized that she'd been going through her old drills. For a moment, she was genuinely surprised that she was still physically able to do them. 

It was a shame that her fear of telling the others outweighed her desire to tell the others. She knew that the Knight and the Captain would get more use out of these old weapons than she ever would. 

But they would all hate her. 

With a sigh, Rhiannon replaced the sword to its rack. Perhaps a moonlit walk could clear her head. As she exited her chambers, she snatched up her cloak, pulling the hood over her eyes.

No one need know she was gone.