Bad Blood
The queen, 100s of years ago, brutally attacked by the man closest to her heart. A short story.
Deep crimson spilled from her wounds. It was an unstoppable force that would udoubtedly end in death. Not the doctor, nor the priest, who prayed to god for a recovery, could help her. Blood stained the marble floor, a potent force apon a once lovely place of balls and gatherings. There she wept. Uttering last words under her breath, never to be heard by anyone but herself, the queen.
Subjects looked on through the clear glass windows, shouting words of praise as guards cleared them away, though even more came, a hopless endavour, for her highness was dearly loved.
Loyal servants questioned her place, for they could gladly carry her to die peacefully on the royal bed, but she refused, too proud and dignified to leave without a fight. A traitor was he! How could she not have guessed? Blinded by love and lust. Oblivious to hurtful stares and harsh words from those that served her well.
An era was at it's end, a new one to begin only days from now. That is why she wept, not because it was her time to die, which felt justified in its own mysterious way, but because she had failed the loyal ones, the ones that believed her to be whole and pure in every form. Far from perfect, true, but flawless in the eyes of the commoners, who were never to experience fine jewels and expensive dwellings as she had.
Yes, this was a burden. for on that day, a saint was lost and a tyrant born. The heir to the throne, yet was to be known, but later, the world would come to find him as that of the sourest nature.
At last onlookers were shooed away, for in her final moments, the queen went pale. Drowned by her blood, which was shed by royal love. No more was a heartbeat, and her body carried of by all of the court, who cried rivers, worth more than her royal blood.
Subjects looked on through the clear glass windows, shouting words of praise as guards cleared them away, though even more came, a hopless endavour, for her highness was dearly loved.
Loyal servants questioned her place, for they could gladly carry her to die peacefully on the royal bed, but she refused, too proud and dignified to leave without a fight. A traitor was he! How could she not have guessed? Blinded by love and lust. Oblivious to hurtful stares and harsh words from those that served her well.
An era was at it's end, a new one to begin only days from now. That is why she wept, not because it was her time to die, which felt justified in its own mysterious way, but because she had failed the loyal ones, the ones that believed her to be whole and pure in every form. Far from perfect, true, but flawless in the eyes of the commoners, who were never to experience fine jewels and expensive dwellings as she had.
Yes, this was a burden. for on that day, a saint was lost and a tyrant born. The heir to the throne, yet was to be known, but later, the world would come to find him as that of the sourest nature.
At last onlookers were shooed away, for in her final moments, the queen went pale. Drowned by her blood, which was shed by royal love. No more was a heartbeat, and her body carried of by all of the court, who cried rivers, worth more than her royal blood.
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