The Queen Is Dead

-The Queen Is Dead-
by
Keaton Foster

“For love, all that is loyalty can easily be set to waste.”

Upon a shadowy trail and down a broken path. From beyond a distant forest and out of the deepest corners of pure darkness, I have come. I have come to do what must be done. I am no man of honor, no man of loyalty, but rather a desperate man turned into a terrible monster. I was sent by another, driven to kill her, the queen, because of an offer that was made. An offer that I could not afford to refuse.

I rode in unopposed, my dark horse, an iconic marker of death, easily causing those brave few who stood at the outer gates to flee. His black skin, thicker than any empty night. His long mane, soaked in the blood of those few crossed. His eyes, hollow holes, no doubt leading to the core of his perilous soul. He has no name, at least not one that any of us alive would dare speak. Burning are my own eyes, a clear sign of a man set aside. My skin, just as cold as ice. My fragile heart laboring over the decisions that I’ve made to get me here. My mind, racing over what must be done.

My weapon, one of utter brutality, is unsheathed. Appearing always ready to kill, at a moment’s notice I could use it to cut any other man down. Wisely, the villagers have left. None of them are fighters, only farmers. They would have stood no chance. Sadly, a few kingdom guards dared to challenge me. Quickly, I cut them down like twigs in a blood-soaked field. At the gates of Heaven, they now stand. Free men, about to be reunited with all that they themselves hold sacred and dear.

Upon my horse, upon the end, we stand in the courtyard of royalty. The queen, now left alone, is naked and exposed. She kneels down before me, asking me for forgiveness. I assure her that there will be none. She begs me to consider mercy. I assure her that I am incapable of as much.

After her attempts at bargaining have failed, once all reason is fooled, she quietly says,
“Executioner, do what you’ve come here to do. Let your sword be true and may I feel none of what you have deemed is due.”

I step down from my steed, and at her side, with purpose, I now stand. From her point of view, I’m sure that I appear as a giant. From my point of view, she appears fragile and helpless. The angle for my one and only strike is just right. I raise my sword up high. Like a thousand angry men, I know that I must swing. But before I do, I whisper into her ear,
“Thy queen of all men but I, this is not personal. I was offered something beyond all refusal. You must die so that another can again live. Be assured that your death will be less brutal and more swift. Thy queen, if you please, make your peace with God, and when 'amen' crosses your lips, I will strike you down. I will separate your head from your crooked spine, severing all that makes you royalty in this world of such tortured beings.”

With little to no gallantry and with little to no sympathy, unopposed, here I stand and wait as she makes her peace. She cries her tears. I am unsure if they are tears of joy or tears of fear. Either matters none in such a moment, but I must admit that later such a distinction will get deep under my skin and there it will further remain.

The sweetest word, “amen,” creeps out and with all the kindness that I can muster and with all the precision that I can afford her, I bring my sword down with a force no doubt greater than the one applied. It slices through her neck like the wind cutting through the air, only stopping when the blade crashes into the ground. Her head rolls away as her body falls in place. All that made her alive quickly escapes. All that made her the queen is slain by these hands.

Proof of such an act is required, so I place her head into a sack. Upon my steed, I scream back to the kingdom of no man, and once there I place her head at the feet of the being that has something far more valuable to me than any queen that I refused to believe.

I say to that being,
“The queen is dead. I’ve brought you her head. Proof of her calamity and the required payment for what you have promised me. Pay up, deliver me my prize. What was required to make me kill the queen of every man but you and I.”

At my feet, he delivers what was once lost to me. At my feet, he returns what was once stolen from me. Her name is Isabelle, and she is my one and only precious child. The light of my heart, my soul, and all that I am certain I know.

As soon as she looks into my eyes, no doubt noticing a change, Isabelle speaks,
“Father, what have you done?”

I reply,
“My precious child, the queen is dead.”




The Queen Is Dead
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2015.