Esmerelda

Prologue

She hadn't meant to drink quite so much.

It was just that the honey-amber liquid was so inviting, and the light when viewed through the glass bottle was so comforting. So reassuring. She had kept the vial on the table beside her bed, turning on her side so she could watch the hearth flames flicker through the glass. Twice now sleep had almost come to claim her and she had climbed from its murky descent for one more mouthful of tonic, just a swallow really, to keep the dreams at bay.

Anything was better than the dreams, and the serene disconnection that the bottle's contents promised was preferable to most everything lately. Attached to the glass stopper was a dropper, the prescribed daily dosage for stable mental health. Hand shaking slightly, she disregarded the dropper and tipped the bottle's mouth to her own once more.

She did not like to admit her increasing dependency to anyone, not even herself. Only her personal physician knew how much of the elixir she actually consumed, and he was bound both by honor and a possible penalty of death to withhold this information. It had begun with a mere dropper full a day, sometimes less. She was strong enough to make it through a day, though there were constant reminders. She relied on the iron will inherited from her father, along with his sense of duty tempered by her mother's patience and the firm belief that everything happened for a reason.

However, as weeks trudged by and slowly morphed into months nothing improved. The emptiness did not dissipate and the dreams (though calling them such seemed such a cruel joke) became steadily worse. This had not been part of the plan, not even a footnote or clause within the arrangement. She had fulfilled her part of the bargain, thought she had been aware of what it would cost her. She had known that there would be pain, but had not considered to what degree or length. All of her life she had been thought to be a strong woman, and this was not without merit.

This was simply something she could not endure.

The physician had seen her growing dependency on the medication and had tried to make it less

potent, but the patient would then go through it all the more quickly (and often with more adverse side effects). He had then attempted switching the size of the bottle with the hope of weaning her growing addiction. This had nearly caused him bodily harm at the hands of several heavily armed men. The good doctor then restored the missing ounces, resigning himself to the fact that his charge undeniably possessed a higher ranking post than he. So he prayed.

Hazy, eyes weighed down with sorrow she listened as the bells tolled the hour. The low chime resonated within the near-empty halls six times. Slowly she exhaled, refocusing on the bottle.

Six.

Six chimes, six hours, six slashes it took to hit the mark and take the life.

Six cuts to pierce the offered heart, six screams of pain and rage to the ritual that bound her.

Six times her hands nearly followed her will to change it all, to turn the knife inward to her own chest.

But his hands were on hers, guiding the blade to its intended target. How her hands had shook, making the first three wounds deep enough to draw blood but not close enough to stop the beat. Her vision had blurred with tears, making all but his eyes staring back into hers a blur.

The sixth plunge found its subject and a seventh scream had issued from her throat, primal agony that blocked out the mumbling chants around her.

God? Let the doctor keep his God, for hers had not kept His word and surely the two were one and the same.

She was not a weak woman, but in her despair she had forgotten this.

The bottle was nearly empty now, the refracted light dancing over her closing eyes. With one shuddering breath she succumbed to sleep, one tear detaching itself from her eyelashes to trace the moving shadows on her pale cheek.

The clock struck the hour again.

By the seventh chime the Queen was dead.

Author's Note

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