Black Rose | Complete |

| twelve |

(please click the above video and listen as you read)

She hears a maid enter her room, curtsy, and place her crown on its pedestal. She doesn't turn when the maid leaves. She simply stares out the window, watching the people gathered below.

Despite what he had the kingdom believe, it was never her fault.

A moment passes before she rises, drawing the curtains closed and venturing to her closet. Everything within is black but she needs not wear black any longer. Her fingers push through the darkness to back where she has hidden herself. 

There are no buttons on the dress, nor is the fabric thick and stiff. The light silk ripples under her touch as she carefully adjusts each flowing layer, her hands falling back into habit though she had not been able to wear the clothes of her homeland for ten years.

After securing her sash, she reaches for her brush. Quickly, she untangles her hair, braiding two sections and pinning them to rest in a loose bun at the crown of her head. The rest of her hair she leaves alone, allowing it to fall as it pleases.

She glances in the mirror. No longer does she see a shadow, veiled in darkness. Her skin remains pale and her cheeks sunken but no longer is she a mere servant to a ruthless husband. Ignoring the crown resting on its pedestal she places a hairpin, a wedding gift from her family, in her bun. Appearance complete, she steps out from her room. A maid stands at her door, ready to accompany her to the throne room where her people are certainly waiting.

"Your necklace."

The maid steps forward, removing a string of pearls from their box and fastening them around her neck. 

"Thank you."

"Of course, my Queen. Follow me."

She is lead through the twisting hallways of the palace, under the beautiful stained glass windows and crystal chandeliers glittering with opulence. Uncertainty lingers, replacing the darkness that once hung thick in the atmosphere.

They watch her, silent as the winter's morning, as she enters the throne room. She keeps her gaze forwards, each step leaving cold echoes off the the marble floor. The grand doors, doors she was not allowed to walk through, are ready to be opened on her command. She can hear shouts of the people, her people. They do not yet know.

A small vase sits neglected beside the now empty throne, its silver sheen hosting a small bouquet of fading black roses. She plucks one from its place, fingers tracing the petals. Such a small thing that brought about such death.

"My Queen, are you alright?"


She knows the voice, someone familiar, but she does not need to fear any longer.

"Yes," she whispers, looking up to meet the blue eyes of one of her advisors. "I believe I am."

He casts his gaze downwards, thick lashes shielding his glittering eyes from her gaze.

"Of course, my Queen."

Fingers trembling she draws in a tentative breathe, her movement drawing her eye to her reflection in the vase. Onyx hair tumbles down in a waterfall down her back and her pale skin blends into the white marble of the throne room. A moment of hesitation, and then she speaks.

"Open the doors." 

The barriers groan open and as light floods in, so does the noise.

"Mercy! Have mercy on her!"

"Kyra!"

"Mercy my lord!"

"Kyra!"

When she steps out, the noise stops. The crowd falls silent.  The silk fabric of her dress hardly makes a sound as she descends the stairs to the platform below.

Whispers shoot through the air and she can hear murmurs of her name. She scans her eyes over the people, her people, taking in the faces of every tired and neglected soul. A moment lingers before she speaks.

"The king is dead."

A cheer begins to arise, but she holds her hand out, bidding the quiet to return.

"But the perpetrator made an attempt on my life as well, and for that they will be brought to justice."

A gesture of her hand brings forward the perpetrator. Obsidian eyes that once burnt bright with life have been quenched with the waters of rage. White cloth wraps around pale ankles as Kyra is pulled to the pyre.

"Mercy," the people plead. "Mercy my lady! Have mercy my Queen!"

Their cries fall upon deaf ears. She looks back at Kyra, at the Chosen. She knows that Kyra regrets nothing, and neither will she.

The guards bind the Chosen to the pyre, as the cries of the people grow.

"Mercy," the people plead. "Spare her life! Spare her my Queen!"

White petals are strewn atop the pyre, tinder for the coming event. They rest on pale feet, pure as the snow.

She lays the single black rose on top of the petals. When she steps back, the fire is lit. The clamor of the crowd reach her ears, washing over her in gentle waves of anguish. The screams of a once-innocent girl rise through the flames, blending into the smoke to form a grey with which to paint the cobalt sky. For once, she does not weep for the Chosen.

The black rose burns as she turns away, blue gown trailing behind her as she ascends.