The Queen’s Desire

Her skin was white as snow, her lips stained red with blood. Her ebony hair spilled down the side of her glass coffin, curls tangled with memories. Her beloved birds no longer sang songs of joy, unwilling to disturb her rest. Even the wind blew in silence.

In the Queen’s chamber, the heart lay encased in its jewelled box. Her most treasured possession, no longer alive, yet pulsing with remembered warmth. Candlelight flickered across its slick surface. It was no longer stained an innocent red but bled with darkened decay, just as the Queen desired. 

Each night she leaned close, whispering sweet curses, as she stroked the glass. The heart answered with the shuddered breath of a curse refusing to die. Memories of forests and flowers seeped through the cracks: a flash of ruby lips, a crown of raven hair, a drop of fresh blood against pale skin. The memories faded night by night. Before long, the heart could only remember the ghost of the forest's kindness. 

When morning came, the Queen reached for her treasure, but found only the stain of blood inside. A shadow at the window: an old bird, blood dripping defiantly from its beak. She was never the Queen’s to own, but the forest’s to love. 

by Chantelle Mackintosh