The Queen of Scots and its isles often walks the lands of the Frenchman's court when her grandeur Majesty was blanketed in a foot of winter's porcelain kiss. The ravenette, birthed of the highest noble blood, both young and old, seen and unseen, feared and loves by both none and all, she floats over the frozen ground, marred by winters embrace. Her feet barely touch the ground, grandeur cape and gown -more expensive and finer than any woman in the Kingdom combined-, they graze and dance with the soft delicateness befitting a woman of such stature and station.
Her face, pointed and porcelain and the very embodiment of beauty and grace, it shifts from each leaf and thorn. Both frozen and alive, coloured and albino, blunted and sharpened. She touches them with her nails, decorating thing, long, pointed fingers. Her fingers sparkle with jewels of every colour. Her gown shimmers brighter than the snow itself, even on such a winters' morning just as this. The nails are hardened and long, filed and sharpened to the point of weaponhood. They scare against the greenery, imploring the snow to dance and freeze on its decent to the ground, exposing and hiding the greenery within. She floats through miles upon miles of frozen gardens, poisoned to slumber under a blanket of winters' kiss. Her gown, white to the point of blue, glitters with jewels from every corner of the Kingdoms. Her cape, blue to the point of black, drags for several feet behind her, grandeur and minuscule, all in one.
She comes to the first sign of life in far too long. A lone rose, portraited by veins of vines, the deepest, brightest green any man or woman has sever seen or ever will see. The rose is the brightest crimson, both gentle and armed. The petals are the softest material in living memory. The first bloom in several months of frozen isolation. The colours are brighter than ever before in comparison to the porcelain, colourless snow behind and around it.
Her hand extends out towards the grand bloom. A small gasp leaves her lips as she is pricked by a sharpened thorn. One by one, the ravenette's blood drips untoward the snow beneath her feet. Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip. Eleven drops of scarlet blood bloom against the snow. She smiles softly, that smile that both men and women oath can bewitch and entrance any being to do the Queen's will.
A soft breeze kisses her face and body, her hair that passes over her thighs blooms against the skirts of her gown. The waves, deeper than the blackest nights' sky, becomes decorated by minuscule flakes of snow, more precious than the diamonds that decorate her crown.
She plucks the rose, holding it gently in her small hands. Beautiful, yet stronger than any other weapon.
I wish for a child, the Queen thinks. A child with skin paler than the snow, hair darker than a raven's wing, and lips more crimson than any rose before him.
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You Are My Light Part II
Historical Fiction-Reign Oneshots/Taking Requests- The world can be dark, Mary, and uncertain and cruel. The only thing that matters is that we face it together. No matter what happens, you are my light. Part 2! -Read TEML first!-
