Ep. 65- Death of a Monarch

Because there’s no rest for the wicked, I spent another week sick in bed.

I think I’m finally better better now.

It’s hard to not feel a bit paranoid about it. As routine as it’s become to catch the plague during the plague, you can’t help but wonder how that’s changed and altered you.

I spent some time deep in a 102 degree fever and I stumbled on a question-

Why bother getting better?

Who is it for?

What am I hoping to get out of it?

I was stumped. I tried to envision a future and it came up blank. I tried to summon ambition and was left emptyhanded. I conjured faces of people I thought I cared about and plans I once held dear and found them impossible to carry for more than a few seconds.

And yet, despite a dearth of purpose, my body steadily improved. Now I’m back at work on a Monday just like any other. Like nothing happened. Like nothing will.

Yet another rebuild.

Who can be bothered?

Impulse. Reflex. All that can be counted on to keep us going when even logical reason ceases.

The human body and soul endure like the kinetic watch- you can shout it down, but it keeps ticking to spite you, your own motion fueling it.

Until one day it just stops.

What I do know is there’s nothing more depressing than looking behind you.

You know how sometimes you meet an old friend from school and all you can think to do is talk about the Old Days?

That stuff hurts my soul.

The Old Days are no good. What are we doing this week, this day, this hour? That’s what ties me here.

The Old Days might as well be a ghost story.

Like Alice.

Alice is kind of a ghost story.

Anyway, let’s finish this flashback arc.

I’m sick of looking back. Aren’t you?

int. throne room morning cont.

The crimson blood of the Old Queen of Swords pools within the grooves of the old stone floor, its trickling current edging its way toward the downed Young Queen of Swords, the smattered bronze diadem of the throne just within reach of her arm.

Justice stands over the broken corpse of the queen he’s just slain. His grim voice holds no remorse for the regicide.

JUSTICE
You have my apologies, Lord Sun. I have slain the wrong query. With your permission, I will end this quickly.

SUN
The challenge is over, Justice.

JUSTICE
What?

SUN
You were challenged by a knight. But now you face a queen. Martial challenges are beneath one who holds a crown. Only a fellow lord is worthy of speaking terms to a queen. You would presume beyond your station should you continue this fight- stand down.

The Sun holds out his hand. Justice spits, throws down his blade in disgust. He picks up the bronze crown of Swords, handing it to the Sun with a bent brow of barely restrained deference.

SUN
(quietly)
And do not ever, ever, question me again.

JUSTICE
(quietly)
Yes, m’lord.

The Sun takes the copper crown and extends it to the Young Queen.

She looks at the crown- the symbol of leadership abdicated- now to her- now- too soon. Her gaze cannot ignore the smattering of the old queen’s blood across the surface, the broken body just barely reflected in the smudged surface of the tarnished crown.

The Young Queen stands, she takes the crown from The Sun- not gently- and fixes it upon her head, a bit of the blood from the headpiece trickling down onto her own face, she wipes it away leaving a red smear across her cheek.

She drives a visage of contempt directly into the Sun’s implacable face. She knows what she will say- what she’s been preparing to say all this time- what she knew her first words as monarch would be-

QUEEN OF SWORDS
I claim this crown as new Queen of the House of Swords, and as the rightful monarch, I reject yo-

The Queen stops, her breath catching. She looks down, her hands instinctively going to her stomach. A patch of red- small first, but rapidly spreading, spreads through the gray of her own tunic. Her trembling fingers scramble about the fabric before finding the jutting point of a short sword run clean through the abdomen. The blood, a fierce scarlet, continues to rapidly spread before turning from blood to advancing flame erupting from the sword itself.

The Queen lets out of shout of pain and wretches herself forward, forcing herself free of the fiery spike. She turns to find the Young Knight of Swords, a bloody shortblade in one hand, a fist full of fire in the other.

The Queen falls to a knee, gasping.

SUN
I warned you- you would only hold this crown for a mere few seconds. And you couldn’t even order your house to arms. Pity.
(to the Knight)
Take what is rightfully yours, child.

The Young Knight of Swords approaches the Queen, lifts the crown from her head and sets it upon her own. A pained look between the pair- a momentary flash of guilt upon the Young Knight’s face- which she immediately blots as she impresses her flaming hand upon the face of the defenseless Queen of Swords. The Queen of Swords flails at this attack, her hands clawing helplessly at the fiery grasp to no avail before finally going limp.

The Young Knight casts aside the twitching form of the Queen of Swords, her hand of fire now extinguished, the skin tinged black with the char of her victim.

She turns to the Sun, leveling a hard gaze at the solar lord.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
I claim this crown as new Queen of the House of Swords, and as rightful monarch, I abdicate this throne in your service, and dedicate my knighthood- and that of all in my house- to our new lord, the Sun.

The Young Knight offers her crown back to the Sun, who takes it, lifting it above his head with one hand. He holds it upright, the light of his fiery visage reflecting off it as the crown itself begins to turn from bronze to a forge’s red before melting completely in the hand of the Solar God.

SUN
As a final boon for your service, former monarch of Swords, I’d ask you what we would do with this wretched…creature, your house has kept for so long?

The Knight turns her attention to the writhing form of her former queen.

KNIGHT OF SWORDS
The Rite of Reversal. Let her connection to the Arcane be cut off and then cast her out into the wilderness, where she might live out her remaining days in the open world as she began them- an outcast, unwanted and alone- and powerless. It would be worse for her than death.

SUN
Sensible. Reasonable. I delight. Your boon is granted. The Rite of Reversal, the secret of the Tower bestowed upon only the most powerful of Cards, is granted.

The Sun approaches the quivering form of the Queen of Swords and outstretches his arms, his palms facing downward toward the Queen of Swords. A pillar of light forms between his outstretched arms, contained, and focuses downward onto the Queen’s body. The light gathers and fires downward into a beam and arcane energy in the form of green and red auras extracts from the Queen, her form shrieking with a cry that bounces about the stone surfaces of the cold throne room, piercing the eardrum of every soul present.

When the light dissipates, naught is left but the Queen’s straining form. She raises a hand toward the Sun, her green air Arcana energy flicking across the fingertips for a moment before extinguishing completely.

ext. valley of bones afternoon

Continued flashback- the Valley of Bones, which remains much the same as it is in present tense.

The Queen of Swords, her scorched face covered by a dirtied rag of fabric, lies under the hot rays of the mid-day sun.

A shadow passes over her body- a humanoid figure stands over her eclipsing the daylight.

STRENGTH
Really now, dying in my valley won’t do. Come along, my old student. You’ve a new purpose yet to servce.

This concludes the flashback of the Queen of Swords. Join us next week for renewed adventures in the present timeline.