Ætheldred

the burning queen

Ætheldred was her name—Queen of Alduria, dragon-born, anointed in flame. She bore the pole-blade, dread instrument of doom, and laid waste to the Threefold Kingdom. Over the Sira Desert she rode, borne on a pillar of fire, to cast out the Enorinites, the Lumians, and the Mene. What rose in the name of freedom did swiftly rot to tyranny, and from tyranny did fester into cleansing. Her hands, baptized in blood, did not tremble—for with that same crimson tide, she scoured the land of its corruption.

No banner with her colors did fly.

No songs.

In silence and fever she sat. White robes spilled like milk beneath her golden frame. Her jet-black tresses clung to sweat-slick skin. Kohl smeared beneath her eyes. Sweat poured down her near-perfect face. Teeth gritting, Ætheldred continued to claw the arms of her wooden seat.

It was in this state her mind wandered—of blood, and battle, and the courtly songs of yesteryear—the year she did seize Mikha’il’s flame. Here, within these modest walls, she held her audience—when suitors dared to draw breath before her. Not so grand was this place as her cousin’s throne-hall, yet it sufficed.

At this, Ætheldred’s pink tongue slid out from betwixt her lips. Her darksome eyes turned upward toward the wall, where his likeness—fair and fine—was carved in coldest stone: Etheldrael, king and cousin. Pure and noble dear cousin Etheldrael.

She dropped her head in shame. Aloud she spoke: “I have sought to love thee. I have struck this breast with penitence threefold, as saints do pray. I have bitten hard my traitor tongue each time thy name passed my lips. For thou art my cousin. My king. My brother in all but womb.”

Yet even in her bowing, Ætheldred’s heart burned with hatred unspoken. She dared not voice it, but in the secret chamber of her soul, she cursed the very air that kissed his lungs.

Nay! She shook herself. I would not bring harm upon my blood, my kindred, my king! Her hand struck her breast once, twice, then three times. Let nothing pass these lips except to decry my fraternal love for thee. I shall speak no poison. No poison.

And yet it seethed. The bitter truth did burn within her belly and bubbled upward, choking sweet reason.

She looked at the wall where stood her pole-blade. It gleamed.

Then a face, pale as death, took shape beside the steel. “Hail! Hail, sovereign of flame! Queen above all! O, dragon-born!”

From whence did this stranger come?

Ætheldred started. “Whence cam’st thou, shade? Speak! For I know thee not!”

“But I am bidden, my queen.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Thou makest sport of me?”

At once, he fell to his knees, black cloak billowing. “Nay, my queen! I speak the very words that you hold within thy heart.”

She tilted her head, eyes glazed with fever. Ætheldred was unmoved by his reverence.

The wretched, yellow-bellied creature stepped forward with bare and dirty feet. “Would that thy royal mother had borne a son,” he whispered, “what a king would thee have made.” He gestured to the pole-blade, daring not to touch. “A relic older than the gods.” He looked at Ætheldred and his strange face stretched to smile. “Did it sing as it split the marrow of men? Does it whisper to thee at night?”

“In tongues known only to the dead,” answered Ætheldred. She smiled as she recalled. “By my hand was its path made sacred; by prophecy, and by flame.”

“Yet the songs are sung not of thee, but of Etheldrael.”

“And I have love in my heart for my good cousin,” snapped Ætheldred. “The king Etheldrael.”

Her cousin. Her shadow. The boy with the flaxen hair and the lion’s smile. Born under a luckier star, loved by bards and priests. He had been groomed for the throne since childhood, called favored by the Council. When Ætheldred returned from the frontier—banners torn, eyes burning like coal—they had offered her a seat at his side. A sword to the crown, never the hand that bore it.

“Yet it was the good Queen,” the stranger said, “who by pain of fire did bring glory once more unto the Three Kingdoms. She tamed Mikha’il’s fire and bound it to her steel.”

Ætheldred’s black eyes shone with unshed tears.

The stranger crept ever nearer. “Oh how I pity thee, my Queen! Thou hast paid a price most dear for fire divine—a price none but the dragon-born could render.” Emotion seemed to overtake the stranger. He pressed a shaking fist to his lips. “See what he hast done—!”

“Peace, thou worm!” cried Ætheldred. She rose in fury, eyes blazing. “Speak no ill of my king, my cousin! May heaven's bolt strike thee!” The very air crackled, the temperature rose.

The stranger cowered, his pale and skeletal hands covering his head. “Never, my good Queen! Never!”

With a rush of hot air, Ætheldred once more sank into her seat. She shielded her eyes with trembling fingers.

Spoke the stranger, still bowed: “No hatred have they in their hearts, surely.” He paused and then continued, “they have welcomed back the one who returned good to the people and greatness to Alduria.”

“Indeed.”

“They bear thee no hatred, surely. Nay—they speak now of healing. Of justice.
Before thy golden feet trod the city, they whispered of peace. Etheldrael, the soft-tongued, has built his loyal host from embers past. Where thou didst burn, he sootheth. Where thou didst silence, he remembers. He is the balm for thy flame.”

Ætheldred spoke naught.

Slowly, the stranger climbed to his feet. “The balm to the flame which came at the highest price, O sovereign. Your soul.”

Ætheldred wept.

At once, the stranger was by her side. His pale hands fluttered, never touching. “Dry your eyes, my Queen!”

“It burns,” she lamented.

“Yes,” comforted the stranger. “To wield the dragon-flame is to burn.”

Ætheldred’s hands veiled her face.

“Such a price, such a great price,” the stranger continued. “And thou hast gifted it to the people to restore greatness to Alduria. Yet thy cousin, King Etheldrael has no sense of gratitude. There is a debt to be paid, dear queen. He is your great undoing. He has undone the work. You feel it now, dear child. It tears and bites.”

“I wish to die,” Ætheldred. “Would that I had never drawn breath. All that I am is misbegotten. Curse my mother—hellish, wicked woman!”

“You are strongest for having borne such pain. Such pain is to be commended. This act is worthy of a king!” His fingers nearly alighted upon her perfect hair. “It is your head that calls for the crown. Look at Etheldrael. He came not with sword, but with smile. Yet poison oft doth ride on honey’d tongues.”

Ætheldred nodded. “Aye… Aye, t’is true.”

“Think of the grievous sins of the Mene people. Didst thou not see what they did to children? How they cast babes into the flame?”

“Aye.”

“Who was it that cut out the witching tongues of Enorinites?”

“T’was I.”

“And who halted the pagan rites of the Lumians?”

“T’was I.”

“Indeed. Thy cousin means to mend what thou didst break—as though the broken thing were not made better by thy hand.”

“He seeks peace. He speaks of healing. Is that not noble?”

“Noble? Aye, as a shepherd is noble who calls back the wolves. What peace is this that forgets the flame? What healing that unbinds the scar?”

Ætheldred’s eyes flickered.

So, the stranger continued: “Thou hast made Three Kingdoms whole through fire and steel. And now he comes—unburnt, unbloodied—to unmake thee. He would write thee out in ink and song. Thy name shall fade 'til none but shadows dare speak it.”

“But he is beloved. The people look upon me and recoil in fear.”

“Because he hath not bled. Because he hath stood in halls while thou stood on the pyre.”

Her hand rose to trace the scar beneath her left eye.

The stranger pointed to the pole blade. “Look to the blade,” he urged. “Hear it. It calls not for peace. It calls for reckoning. Thou art the most righteous, called to be the deciding hand above all.”

Ætheldred closed her eyes. “I-I grow weary. Go now, serpent.”

“Let the blade speak. Let fire do what fire was born to do.”

Twin tears fell from the Queen’s eyes.

“He hath stolen thy throne,” spoke the stranger. “But thou—thou art the storm. Thou art the wrath of heaven. It is by your hand fate is decided. The crown is yours, my queen.”

“Mine,” she echoed.

“Yes.”

The trembling ceased. Ætheldred rose.

Slow, deliberate was her motion. The pole-blade gleamed, drunk already on the memory of blood. Her fingers closed round its hilt.

The stranger nodded. “Aye, thy birthright. Not won by ballot, nor by bard's sweet verse, but by trial of flame and fury. What is love to thee, who hath bled so deep? What is peace but silence misnamed?”

Ætheldred’s face, once tear-stained, now bore the calm of ruin. She moved toward the throne’s shadow, where her cousin’s likeness lingered—stone-eyed and serene. She forgot the stranger and addressed her cousin. “And still my heart clings to love. Even as I watched thee raise thy host, soft-eyed, soft-palmed. Speaking of healing as thee sharpened thy knives. Even then, I spake: he is my cousin…

No more.”

Ætheldred leveled her weapon to the carving’s face. “Love that is blind becomes rot.”

She moved away, turning to face the window. The Sirah lay beyond. The sun blazed and the sands danced. She drew breath that crackled with heat. From between clenched teeth, Ætheldred spoke, “O, what fire I swallowed for this realm! While he walks beneath sweet songs, untouched by soot, unloved by flame. When I did return, my eyes burned red, my banners torn, my voice grown hoarse with war; they gave me a seat at his side. A sword. Not the sceptre. Not the crown. Never the hand that rules—only the hand that strikes.” She struck her breast with her free hand, eyes closing and head lifting to the ceiling.

“Let them carve his name in marble. I shall write mine in fire. Songs…”

She scoffed then.

“Let bards forget me. Let them curse my name.

So long as kingdoms kneel, and stars look down and know…

that I was Queen.”

If my words have stirred you, leave a coin at the shrine—Ko-fi welcomes thee.