The Lady of the Hive has Arrived

Prologue

The queen awoke breathless, the sinking sensation in her nightmare had felt real enough to free her from the nightmare's vice-like grip. Yet the ocean from her sleep lingered and left her feeling sticky in a thin coat of salt water. The dewey layer caused the sheets of her bed to cling tightly to her skin, making her feel as trapped and helpless as she had been in the dream.

Seeking comfort, the queen struggled a feeble hand free of its linen constraints and extended it to brush her fingertips on the surface of her rock. Familiar, sturdy, constant but old and weathered, her rock had the strength she had borrowed from and had relied on for six long years. In the dreams where she was without her rock, she was always drowning in a wide sea, without a foothold or support to cling to.

The king stirred at his spouse's gentle touch, but did not wake from his deep sleep. "Reina," he mumbled, resting his large hand on her small one and squeezed her elegant fingers softly. She smiled as she had expected this tenderness, and had depended on these moments for solace, even if the name he had called out for was never hers.

However, comfort was quickly overtaken by a sense of fear. The feebleness of his hands sent her into a worried frenzy. The queen brushed her hand over her husband's cheek and forehead. His cheek felt clammy, hot, and was slick with sweat. The king's hand yet again reached to grab at hers, but failed. The large hand she depended on for support, fell from the air and landed with a thud to the mattress. Her heart felt as though it had fallen too.

By the time his squire, healer, and attendants had answered the queen's summons, the queen had already repositioned her king husband to be on an incline using his pillows as a wedge, draped a wetted cloth across his forehead, and had drawn a pitcher of drinking water. A cool breeze now entered through the opened window. Her king husband's attendants wasted no time in stripping the king and his bed of their soiled linens. The bed was provided with new sheets, and the attendants washed the king clean of his feces and piss.

The king only exhibited few meager signs of living, grunting and whimpering during the healer's thorough and at times painful examination. His eyes rarely opened, and seemingly only fluttered open when he moaned.

It was only now that his wife saw how old her king husband truly was: his sagging skin, the myriad of deeply creased wrinkles spanning out from the corners of his eyes, the two bushy white eyebrows casting shade over his pale green eyes, and his face framed with white wiry hair paired with an equally white beard.

The queen was quickly ushered out of the room by her two closest handmaidens, removing her from the potential dangers her husband's weak body could've been excreting. She was brought into the queen's private quarters, the room most familiar to the queen of all the castle's chambers. The queen was bathed vigorously, her nails and hair washed and scrubbed in hopes of removing any traces of sickness that may have clung to her. Her loyal handmaidens carried out their duties with even more finesse than usual, cleaning their lady's already fresh linens and nightgowns twice over to ensure their queen's safety.

The castle had been so quiet, the queen had not spoken a word since she had departed her husband's side, and her accompanying handmaidens only spoke to one another in hushed whispers at a distance from their lady.

Among the queen's feelings of panicked concern for her husband's life, lurked concerns for her own. She deemed these feelings as selfish and abhorrent, yet they still persisted in her mind. Without her rock, she felt as though her world would finally drown her as it did in her nightmares.

That night held no sleep for the queen, only a long night of creeping darkness and heavy silence.