Mourning Dawn
Both of her children were dead. Her husband, the king, was missing. There was no hope for the nation now, as her last breaths filled the dim chamber.
She looked beautiful and young, perhaps no more than forty. Ebony black hair ran down to her shoulders as wildly and as smoothly as a horse’s mane, with a complementary pair of glassy ash-coloured eyes that ornamented her face.
And she wore red. Full of life yet not. The black curly royal streaks and lines of black beads intertwined with the burgundy fabric of her long gown, mimicking a fierce climbing dragon. Even when she laid there - dying - she looked majestic. Her nails were shiny and painted cherry-rouge, perfectly opposed to her smooth, bleached hands that rested turbulently on her abdomen… as if in harrowing pain.
“My child.” Her voice was sore and disappearing, in the almost empty room. It was to the surprise of a very young man and a maid that the queen spoke, but all they could give in response was silence and slow tears. The maid shuffled a bit in her spot, while the boy already kneeling on the left side of the small bed, bowed his head down. He slowly closed his eyes, making a cold expression; it was a form of deep grief so intense that it was motionless and soundless. The queen’s heavy inhaling and exhaling solely scratched the silence.
“Dear child.” With her voice broken and raspy she said: “Run away. Do not resent me or this kingdom. Be happy.” These were her last words - the last words from the last monarch of this nation. The boy said nothing.
She reached out for him with her hand in the air. He immediately grasped the small delicate porcelain hand in his big rough ones, holding it tight as his back arched awkwardly while his head sunk downwards.
The royal grey pupils then landed on the middle-aged woman to whom the queen gave a forlorn tired smile - as if expressing a form of gratefulness. More tears fell.
They remained there for a while, in the darkness bowing their heads before the queen, and holding her hands, honouring and respecting the crown. Till the end.
It was worth nothing.
These same hands turned colder and colder, until the person who possessed these eventually ceased to exist. A semicircular emerald shone, secured by a thin gold wire - it was so rich and vibrant and coloured with life - an oxymoron to the queen’s death. The point on the queen’s index finger glinted of green sparkles that erupted by the first rays of the sun.
This queen left her lifeless body to this nation, and many years of torment for the people, and much more misery for that boy. After all, the sun had risen and Hell was ascending to Earth. The people themselves would never accept that boy as their leader. Indeed, they were going to die very soon.
The dynasty of the Beta Cancri ended upon daybreak - the dawn that would be long and endless for millions. Seemingly forever.
Or maybe not.
