✗||—————;; "You’re pretty cute." It was spoken while she had an eyebrow raised, like she was questioning them. "Not that I’m flirting with you — but damn." Sometimes she didn’t think before she spoke.
Beguiled simper pressed into soft saccharine tiers, lighthearted amusement adorned with the beauty of vivacity evident in the gentle quirk of an alabaster brow.❛Please. Spoken by a beauty like yourself?❜Melodic vowels murmured softly aloud, there was a blithesome hum to the matron’s vocalization.
|| > By the edge of the city, there is a trail of bloody red spilling from her feet; bare and red — red like the crimson flower which sits atop the grave; and red like the crimson blade of the deliverer we call Death.
The dawn is set, the stars are nigh; sparkling with a pristine stare — laughing snidely, their noses turned higher into the heavens, towards the gods no one could ever see.
So she murdered a few cursed people. What could does that do? That doesn’t break the curse.
Yet what did she care of a curse, when it was a curse that kept her occupied as the years flew past; one by one by one? What did she care of a curse when she, herself, was cursed with an eternity of life, simply by not being born — per se — but rather created from a substance that just won’t rot? What good was a cursed life when one did not dabble in the curses of other lives?
But, ahh, what was a curse without a sorcerer to have set the curse?
Her eyes turned to the palace; of prism blue and prism pink; of prism yellow, green, and violet, sitting lonely at the top of a hill, presiding over a trophy it won a terribly long time ago.
Who lived there now?
Could it be the same sorcerer who had placed the curse on the people? If so, how had he managed to survive the unforgiving onslaught of age and change?
Or has it been that long at all?
The creature was a curious thing, which stepped lightly on the ground, leaving her trail of red across the stony ground. Slow steps quickened into a jog, and then a job quickened into a run; the female dashed across the fields that connected the lost kingdom to the one still standing like a beautiful lady perched upon a man — waiting for someone to discover her and release her secrets.
Hours pass, and she finds herself at the door — she hasn’t stopped moving since she left the city of Dead Waltz, thus breath has left her and fatigue has left her leaning against the cool glass of the crystalline palace. Her fingertips touch the door, letting dried red smear the glass as she collapses into a crouch at the entrance.
What if there was no one here at all?
Tick-tock goes the clock, the most dreadful of mantras uttered surely to force her into the nebulas of absolute madness. Such an miracle that she hasn’t lost her mind, locked away as if she were more a bastard prisoner whom had committed the most atrocious of criminal activities, and not the Hell-damned royal Empress herself.
The matron’s thoughts are but a churning disarray of paradoxes upon paradoxes, cursed contradictions that have haunted her from the very anathematized moment she was born. Oh, sinful child, she was far from a birth to be celebrated.
She’s well-educated, this monarch—she’s read fairytales upon fairytales of beautiful princesses born to doting parents, an extravagent party thrown in the honor of the child’s birth. Always so wretchedlyhappy, always possessing such a beautiful beginning and an even lovelier ending.
Her throat burns. Vomit gurgles in the back of the monarch’s throat, but she swallows it immediately back as she stands from the lavish velvet cushions upon her throne. Fairytales are always such a darling thing, a beautiful glimmer of hope to most in the harshest moments of their lives. They had a happy beginning, didn’t they? Perhaps after all Hell is said and done, their ending shall be the revelation, the delightful happily-ever-after that they’ve always coveted so.
However, she is different. There was no jubilant beginning for her, no doting parents, no gloriously extravagent parties. How stupid can she be, to dare believe that a joyous ending will ever be in store for her?
Oh, if only she could hire an assassin to slit her throat, create incisions in porcelain flesh to rip out her heart and set it aflame. She would do it herself— bring death upon her healthy lifestyle, if only she didn’t lack the courage. Little bitter Empress, she was braver than most, but surely not brave enough to execute herself, never!
Snapped from her reverie by a sudden, unwelcome presence amidst the perimeter of her palace, her home, venomous fangs hissing a terrible sibilation of disapproval. She is such an awful contradiction— she desires the company of others, yet she possesses little but hostility towards them for treating her ( the Empress, the fucking Empress, for all God’s sake!) so absolutely vehemently as if she’s dirt. She desires man to execute her, yet never does she allow beings within even a hundred-foot radius nearby her.
She’s standing tall before the crystalline, lavish double doors leading into her palace, locked from the inside to keep intruders out. In one swift, sudden movement, she throws the door open, and the sharpened steel of the monarch’s regal blade in shoved in the direction of the girl outside, pressed so close to her neck that she could easily rip her throat out if she so desires.
Yet, she doesn’t. Unlike the denizens of her kingdom, she is more of a fiend than she is a cold-blooded killer.
❛You do not belong here.❜
For the strict articulation of syllables uttered betwixt parted roseate, her voice is surprisingly soft. It’s evident from the matron’s hushed tone that she has not spoken in months— perhaps even years.
chronic whispers of the past distort the present as they dance in her cognition—
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