Chapter 4: Trifle Moments of Revelation

Since umbra had his prevailing shroud,

The sun whose brilliance diminished,

Her glowing face veiled by else a cloud,

Must hope that the shadows have finished.

:o:-:o:-:o:-:o:-:o:

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Maximilian, head of the royal guard, apologised profusely, shedding stricken tears as he dipped over and over again into a bow. "We tried. H-he ran off into the forest. We lost him. There's nothing more we can do. Please forgive us. I-I'm sorry."

Oh no . . . Her lower lip trembled in a manner unbefitting of a grown monarch, shoulders squared in some semblance of her husband's strength. He always made it so important that they have a formidable defense for reasons like this. Now she saw clearly how incompetent they were. The palace had gates. Rows upon rows of inevitably crowded halls. Guards at every major doorway.

And yet the King made his way out without an issue.

There's too much at risk. And it is my fault that we're in this situation at all. I should have listened. He was right, she mourned, fighting back her own sobs that threatened to return. No. I am the Queen. I must be strong now, if not before.

"The forest is terribly frightening a-after those witches . . . I beg, d-don't make us go out there again."

"The blame is none of yours to take . . ." the woman assured, disappointed orbs moving over the sad coalition as she waved her hand in a soft gesture of dismissal. They were so worried that they forgot all semblances of amenity. For once, she didn't correct them. "Get some rest. This afternoon has worn thin."

No one stayed behind at that order, though a couple turned sympathetic eyes to her surely crumpling form and offered a few words of empty comfort before too disappearing with the others.

She stood alone for a short while, caressing one of her arms and staring blankly at the entrance. She imagined herself following the King, reaching out to him, the man turning, turning . . . back . . .

The image of the monster's beastly figure flashed sharply into her mind; the abhorrent, horrific disaster burned eternally in her memory. Dread and regret clawed at her insides and she gasped, cringing and stumbling in reverse, almost tripping on the impractical hem of her gown. Her heart beat rapidly, the hurried thumping of the organ causing sweat to bead down her neck.

It took more than a steadying of her breath to calm, the Queen placing her palm over her chest, fingers gripping at the fabric. Pray tell the King be able to survive the consequences of her actions, lest she absolutely fall to ruin. Eventually, she managed to regather herself, slowly stepping across the throne room and towards the far corridors of the palace.

Her attention lingered on the King's uninhabited seat, a dutiful pang reverberating through her system. She carried on.

Standing rather attentatively by the double doors leading to the dining room, his head bent low in submission, was the cook who had offered them their final course. He looked awfully remorseful.

Contrary to her character, a deep suspicion filled the Queen. Despite it being her fault. It had to be her fault. Somehow, she knew. But she wished it wasn't. "I told everyone that they could return to their quarters. What are you doing here, Gerard?"

"Awaiting . . . your presence," he said as if it were choking him to talk. "I swear, those turtles were dead when we brought them out. We . . . the food had nothing unusual in it. Mercy, I didn't sabotage our kingdom."

As if I have given anything but mercy. The redhead solemnly pressed her mouth into a thin, pinkish line, straining to not picture the vividly distressing transformation for the uncounted occurrence of the day. "Are you certain?"

He drastically recoiled, expression completely taken aback. Consternation radiated from his very essence. "I b-beg your p-pardon?"

"No, excuse my wording," she clarified, sad to find that he was so severely afraid. "I meant the turtles. How did you know they were dead?"

"They were crisp and unmoving! We cooked them to the bone! I-I have never seen such . . . I swear, I did not conspire against you, my Queen, nor the throne. P-please, believe me."

"What if . . . those weren't ordinary turtles?"

Gerard stared at her, a desperation in his gaze. "None of the animals sent to this palace are ordinary, yet we've been serving them for years without consequence . . ."

"They're magical, Gerard. I know it," the redhead responded, feeling that awful tug at her chest, asking to cry. No more tears. "Those turtles were the latest arrivals and I do not trust the safety of their nourishment any longer. We will dispose of the leftovers and I shall make known what to do about the living creatures."

Reluctance warred with his gratitude, disposition starting to straighten. "As you wish. When will you have them removed?"

"Now," she commanded, then softening to a murmur, "or as soon as we can."

The staff member courteously placed his hand over his heart. "In my best graces, I hope you find our King."

The Queen near whispered, "Hope is all we have left."

o-o-o-o-o

And hope she did, the feelings of longing and deprivation building the very fibers of her being. When her status wasn't demanding her presence in the throne room, the Queen found herself lingering by her and her husband's bedside, arms draped one over the other on their windowsill.

Her stare would rake the sun-silhouetted mountains, the darkening trees, the creek glistening with the reflection of a trillion peeking stars, searching for that familiar figure until she could see no more. Then she would say his name, ask him why, and when, and how, and then scold herself to sleep, the constant battering of his criticism missing, replaced by a silence that was not so welcome, the only sound to accompany her the rise and fall of her breath.

It was her routine, a seeming punishment for her ignorance. The wasted time elicited nothing beneficial. Nothing could make up for her failures in the Queen's eyes, and each day and night she spent her spare seconds grieving that very fact.

More and more, the passing weeks added to the lone royal's burden. Her formerly carefree disposition crammed to fit in her finicky, worried mind. The servants had to have noticed; their conversations often became hushed when she was around. Many of her closer subjects she consulted for a share of the supposed secret, but the answers were the same. Awkwardly distant.

However, people continued in waves to reach the monarch for aid, traveling to the palace and setting the entire staff ablaze with submersed panic. Strangely, their cases were not personal, yet directed at the Queen. They made her feel frozen.

"The forest is going to swallow up this palace!" said one of them. "We've heard the wind whispering!"

"I heard it too," said another, insisting. "He speaks!"

"My King?" the Queen gasped, moving forward to meet them halfway.

"The wind, I say! The wind and the trees!"

"Nay, it is the leaves that whisper, not the trees! The leaves that fall to the ground!"

"The animals!" someone shouted, thrusting through the crowd to take place before the Queen. "It is the wicked creatures of the forest, risen into one voice! The beasts! It is the beasts; say it isn't true!"

The redhead glanced between them, overwhelmed, trying to keep up. "The . . . beasts?"

"The beasts! The Beast!" her subject emphasized. "Be warned, My Queen! You must stop them!"

A murmur rippled in the cavernous room, quickly falling silent. Expectant gazes settled a gripping hold on their leader. She was meant to do something she did not know to protect from what she could not control.

"Thank you all for coming," the Queen ended up saying, barely able to contain the tremors terrorizing her system. "I will . . . make haste in supporting the fortification of the palace. Please do not be afraid."

It sounded hollow in her ears.

o-o-o-o-o

Stone. Stone walls, stone pillars, everything entirely stone cold.

The Queen stood watching volunteers stack rocks in an effort to combat the creeping forest, its gnarled trunks and unceasing shrubbery appearing to inch closer every day. There was an uncanny chill to the air, a breeze carrying promises of rain.

"The beastly wind!" Maximilian trotted over to her, the whites of his eyes a stark contrast to his tanned face. He was adorned still in his palace regalia, costume unrealizing of his lack of actual protecting he was doing. "I hear it! Can you?"

"What . . . is he . . . telling you?" she asked, barely speaking, head turned to the forest. A swift gust was blowing, forcing goosebumps to crawl up her clothed arms. Eerie in a way she had never felt before. But to her, she heard no voice. No spoken promises. No uncanny threats.

Just the wind.

A deep, howling, strangely frigid wind, but the wind nonetheless.

Somehow, it made it all the more worse.

"Maximilian?" the Queen said again, staring at him wearily. "What do you hear?"

He matched her gaze, taking a step in reverse. His orbs were wider than the full moon. "You . . . are doomed, madam Queen."

Doomed. The single word shook in her skull just as the imposing wind picked up from its stalling trail, the monarch's red bangs loosening out of her bun. She wanted to deny it. She wanted to promise that she would be alright, that everyone would. But those were promises she could no longer make.

The man suddenly reeled in terror, startling into a sprint for the palace gates. Wails erupted from the volunteer workers, everyone haphazardly scrambling to follow. The Queen stood, paralyzed, when she saw why.

The churning clouds were releasing a heavy sprinkle of tummulting ice, the tiny particles collecting on the unfinished fortress, in the gaps and crevices of the palace, blanketing trees, whipping everywhere with the wind. Some of the ice made its way into her hair, swirling into her face, covering her dress. Panic spiked, the Queen realized what exactly was happening.

Snow. She quickly snapped up the length of her skirt into a transportable bundle, trying to keep it out of the mud and packing accumulation. Her mind was racing, already-freezing feet moving towards shelter. The Unknown isn't supposed to snow. She had only heard stories from the travelers who lived in reality. Never before had the Unknown snowed.

The monarch stumbled, her view obscured by the white flurries. A shadow crossed her vision once, leaving so suddenly that she doubted she saw a shadow at all. People were yelling for her, gathered in the arching safety of the inner palace. Many of them were unable to bring themselves to help her, and she had to trudge back herself.

By the time she reached shelter, the gardens were completely white. Her soldiers were shuddering, the peasants weeping, servants clustered in bewildered groups around her, reaching to the Queen and offering every kind of aid but that required going into the blizzard.

Alice even offered to make her a new dress, despite the trembling of her hands as she guided her ruler further into the warmth of their reforming castle while Maximilian voiced his concerns.

The Queen was soaking wet and radiating cold, shivering when she turned her head to cough into her left shoulder. She then noticed how her lungs burned. Luckily, the heat still in the throne room eased the pain until it faded.

"My Queen . . . what are we to do?" a peasant asked her feebly. "What . . . is this?"

"Snow, my dears . . ." she answered, glancing once more at the onslaught. "Snow in the sweet Unknown."

o-o-o-o-o

Her hair was no longer the beautiful, shining red of before. The Queen twisted her dulling tresses, staring at their orange-brown color. Ever since the day in the snowstorm, it hadn't been the same. Like a strawberry left to rot, the Queen's hair had diminished in vividity.

Nobody dared to sympathize with her. They knew she was failing to combat the changes. They knew talking less of it would mean nothing. She rather them spare the words.

The forest did not overtake the palace. Nevertheless, where the plants fell short, the weather made up for it. The Queen had to order the volunteers to stop building the castle's defenses, more concerned with preserving what was left on the inside. In all honesty, she felt relieved that they were stopping. With every packed stone, there was a vague semblance of isolation. Incomplete, at least her King could possibly return. She scolded herself for the naïve thought.

Sending messengers outside became a difficult task. As their ruler, she was determined to keep a stance of strength and found it unbearably taxing to hold the kingdom together without the King by her side. But everyone was afraid.

Done with her hair, the Queen left the bedroom for the expansiveness of the great hall, her fingertips pinching the contours of her dress in her slight frenzy. No guards stood alert in the corridors leading to. Her servants were all tending to themselves. But she had somewhere to be.

Her first reporter of the towns was none other than Enoch himself. The mayor of Pottsfield had come upon her saddened gate a week before the current day, his pumpkin costume absent and midnight pelt slick with snow.

"Enoch!" she'd said. "Why aren't you at home?"

The cat simply gazed up at her in a grave, intelligent way, unable to speak using her language. But his posture held volumes. And so did his mouth. Enoch set a scrawny, limp mouse carefully upon the tiled floor. Its fur was laced with icicles, browned feet curled.

"P-poor thing . . ." the Queen had mourned, reaching down to cradle it. She let out a keening hiss when her fingertips brushed against its stiff form, her arm instantly retracting and crawling with gooseflesh. What?

Enoch stared at her, blinking his large amber eyes. He had waited.

The mouse didn't move.

"No . . ." she'd said, entranced in fear. "This isn't right. T-the Unknown . . . is a safe place."

The feline meowed lowly, disagreement evident in the way his black hair stood on end. Enoch's ears tipped backwards, flattening like the fields upon fields of crop she was sure became damaged by the unexpected season.

"We . . . we're going to starve, my poor . . ." the Queen hiccupped, overtaken by grief. This is the Unknown; we're supposed to be happy. This shouldn't have . . . my King . . . She stood suddenly on shaking legs, unwilling to set her eyes on the miserable form any longer. "I-I . . . please inform me if anything else comes up. I'll figure out what I can do."

There was a single pause before Enoch had shifted on his haunches, probably grabbing the expired creature in his open jaws. He hadn't done anything else, nor would she have seen him, for the cat padded outside again in the moment after.

Even now, his message was clearly powerful, sitting heavily in her chest as she scurried down the last flight of stairs and made it into the open throne room. A stray passerby the other few days had come with news of Enoch's close return. The civilian was cold, fatigued by the winter's trials, but he was determined to let her know about the other parts of the Unknown, supposedly in exchange for warmth and provisions.

He took nothing. Instead, the man left almost immediately after the blizzard was over. While in the palace, he offered his opinion and desire to survive. He told her about the Beast.

He told her about the King. The Beast. The way people began shutting themselves in their homes to avoid the Beast. The King. The way those with a need to stop the winter had to train their lifestyles to endure it. The way the Highwayman was forced to retreat from an attempt at stealing a family's food. By force. Defense.

Apart from the palace guards, no one was really made to do that.

It was difficult for her to accept it. The King . . . the Beast . . . got what he wanted, but not in the way he wanted. Everything was wrong. Everything could have been different. It could have been better.

Those thoughts are what drove her into losing her lustrous hope. Once the man left for his famished village, he told her that the only payment he would consent to take was the removal of the Beast's evil season. He told her he expected change.

Until today, the Queen didn't have an idea to fix things. Until today, she had worried without end because she couldn't leave her palace to venture alone, and she couldn't tell her staff to go for her when they were all afraid. They deserved to rest after what she put them through.

But today she knew that her loyal visitor was going to mend the Unknown's pain. She had a solution that would set off a chain of great things. If only he was willing. If only her plan would work.

"There he is!" the redhead breathed in relief, stepping over to the gap she'd left between the large double doors. "Enoch, I am so glad to see you!"

Bending over, the Queen smiled at her feline companion. Enoch's mouth was empty this time, though his eyes were full of understanding. He flicked his black tail lightly against her hand after entering, a touch soft and wet with frost.

"I figured it out, my friend," she cooed. "I remember a detail my husband mentioned to you at Pottsfield all those years back. The Enchantresses?"

The cat didn't seem surprised, tail suspending its movement. Waiting.

"Well. I gave it some thought . . . and . . . well, my husband kept in contact with them for a while and he finally . . ." the Queen stopped, shaking her head. "Ah, well. I believe they wanted to do what was right, deep down. But now the people are talking of the Witches of the Unknown, and . . . I'm sure they don't deserve that."

Memories of the townspeople's harsh words reverberated in her head. The two women had become the nightmare fuel of the whole kingdom. All because of their practices for the King. It was appalling to think of how drastically their actions affected them. Such sorrow filled her heart.

"Their names are Adelaide and Whispers, yes?"

Enoch actually nodded.

"I cannot leave this palace. And everyone else is afraid."

He blinked slowly.

"Would it be possible for you to find them and ask them to come here? I don't know if word has spread to them about the King and . . . they're just so secluded. I haven't even had the chance to meet them, not with all the commotion stirring around. Adelaide and Whispers must know what I can do. Would you be willing to go to them for me?"

After another moment, the feline turned away, passing his gaze over her once before pelting back into the frigid outdoors. He was gone in a wisp. Spirited away like the Beast from the dining chamber.

Only this time she had hope.

Long ago, she promised Enoch that she would not lose it.

"Thank you . . ." she muttered to the air. "I hope you make it safely."

The Queen stood, reaching for her tumbled orange hair and tucking a loose strand behind her crown. She then shut the doors. Immediately, the vast room warmed and the air seemed to still.

Opposite of herself, her very essence tingled with newfound excitement. She wanted to dance. She wanted to run alongside Enoch and find her King again.

She wanted to tell everyone in the palace that it was going to be okay.

Because Enoch would find them. And bring them. And make it okay.

But . . . she also wanted to cry.

Tears of joy? Tears of pain? Either way, they trekked her face in a matter of heartbeats.

There was no certainty that they would come. Even less that they could help.

If what happened to her King was irreversible . . . then would the Unknown have the Beast forever?

Was there truly a reason to hope?

She wiped those fickle drops from her skin, kneading her cheek with her teeth. "Of course."

Of course.

No one knew anything of the future in the Unknown.

Their fate . . . was unknown.

Thus the best she could do was hope.

Hope and keep hoping.

It was her duty as Queen.