All the Stars Between Us

The Inexplicable Conundrum of Morality

It burned, and she gasped.

She didn't understand, she couldn't fathom- how? She had never been burnt before. Even when she was part of the Elíte, so often exposed to fire, she had never felt anything.

During training, being burned had simply felt unusually prickly; not an unpleasant sensation all together, but not necessarily enjoyable, either. She had shrugged it off, pretending to flinch, or cry out as the flame touched her, but was always gone by the time anyone thought to check on her wound.

She reasoned that there were different types of burns, that maybe different people felt it differently. There was the burn of anger, burning its way through your veins, demanding to be felt.

There was passion, seeming to burn your insides at a thought, and there was the ache, the pain of love. That burned, but more of a numbing sort of burn, licking lazily at your bones.

That type of burn does not need to rush. It does not need the intensity or fervour of the others you have certainly felt before to consume you from the inside out.

Even these feelings, in all their toil and anger had never matched the burning she now felt in the pit of her belly.

It seemed to scorch her, ripping and peeling out what was left of her savagely. She screamed at the agony, clawing at her person, trying to purge whatever was causing her pain from her body.

She was made vaguely aware of someone running through the door-

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But she refused let her vision fall completely to darkness. She slammed a fist against the concrete floor, and let the sharp ache bring her back.

It was a tactic she often used, as although it was not advisable (or healthy in any way) it usually served its purpose, and she had the climbing hold on the world she needed.

This time however, she regretted it as soon as the pain faded and was in turn replaced by the burning. She curled in on herself, barely feeling the hand on her shoulder or the sudden pain in her arm as tears leaked from the sides of her eyes and her vision faded. This time, however, she was powerless to stop it.

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"Maeve, be reasonable! This can't possibly continue as it is now!" She pleaded with the cold visage that met her eyes.

"And why, pray tell, can it not? I am the Queen, Akaeria. I may do as I please." Hissed the Queen, in a vicious tone of voice that Akaeria had seen her use before, but had never had directed at her. 

Akaeria sighed. "Maeve, you know you're not doing this for the right reasons. If she were to find out why you wanted her here-" Akaeria was cut off by Maeve's hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in anger.

She argued with Maeve for a little while longer before she left. She slammed the door, storming out into the passageway.

She needed to go somewhere she knew would calm her temper, or sparks would fly. Literally.

Afternoon found her sitting in the highest branches of the tallest oak in the royal gardens, crunching an apple and cursing to herself.

She did have... feelings for Maeve, yes, but those had since been overridden by the concern for this new consort.

Consorts to this crown in particular never lasted long. They typically ended when Maeve grew bored, or when her lover broke or burned out. So, usually about a couple decades, at most.