Hollow – that was how she felt. Void of all emotion, drowning in a pit, empty of her very essence. She hadn’t felt like this since the first few days of his – first – betrayal, where the world felt empty, pointless without him in it. Others may have found that emptiness filled with despair and depression while hers filled with rage and revenge – but this time, the emptiness remained.
She had a purpose in her life, to spill blood on the command of the Queen Regent, once again for the betterment of France – the protection of the young King but there was no drive there. Her life had become routine, stale – stagnant. She’d find herself peering in her mirror, gazing at her reflection and find those striking emerald hues gazing back at her – but that once piercing gaze seemed glassed over, as if the fire inside them had dwindled to ashes.
She chalked it up to the lack of excitement, thrill – the power struggle that had gripped France for the last couple years was finally at an end. Peace was boring, war was far more thrilling. Her routine with the Queen had even become more pleasant, rather than silently appearing at witching hours to get her assignments the Queen would welcome her with cool kindness and even mild pleasantries. It was at one such exchange that she found herself not only in the Queen’s company but that of a certain young woman’s – the Queen’s confidant and friend, Madame D’Artagnan. All three women had every reason in the world not to trust one another but fate seemed to have a way to bring them together once again.
Her orders had been given and as she had prepared to depart her steps were matched by the young Musketeer’s wife, her gaze shifting as she turned to face the headstrong lady. Silence lingered between the two of them before the sweet brown eyes of the young wife dropped before the Queen’s murderess.
“What is it Constance?” She didn’t have time to be held up by her, nor did she have anything to say to her.
“In case you’re wondering….” She heard hesitation in Constance’s voice, the shifting worried glances that the Queen and Constance had shared when she entered the chamber returned to her mind’s eye. There was something she was struggling with mentioning, speaking about in front of her – an apology, forgiveness, acceptance of all that had transpired between the three women – no, none of them would ever admit any of that.
“—He’s doing alright.” Brown eyes shifted up, catching the piercing emerald glare, the void that she had been feeling, ripped open, swallowing her mind in the process – the despair and depression that she had managed to hold at bay washed over her in a tidal of emotions. He – there was no denying who she was speaking of – he, was the reason for this void, the reason for her scars, and the reason for where she stood now – truly the monster made.
She wondered if this was meant to hurt her, wound her in the only way another woman could manage. She felt as if her heart had been ripped out, the one they claimed she didn’t have, never had – and had been crushed before her eyes. She searched for fury, for hatred or any vile emotion in the young woman’s eyes but she found nothing but pity and hurt – for her. Perhaps she had seen it, the lifelessness of her gaze as she went about her time with the Queen, perhaps she understood somewhat of the pain she held daily, the longing, the loneliness that plagued her – but why couldn’t she have said nothing. Perhaps it was an act of comfort, no ounce of malice in her thought, rather offering her some comfort in knowing that he was at least well – even if ripped through her like a knife.
When she realized she had said nothing in reply, Constance merely shook her head and offered a quick apology before being left in the shadow of her departure. She was half way down the spiral back staircase before her knees felt as if they may buckle and she forced her back against the wall. Her heart was hammering in her chest as the tidal wave of emotions swept over her once more.
She would be lying if she didn’t admit that she had thought of him – but each time she did, she thought of her as well. The woman he had chosen over her, the life he had made with her, the child they were having together – the future that had been stolen from her – again. She had sworn revenge on him once, she had sworn that she’d be the one to end his life, she had tried and failed, sought understanding and acceptance – found that she still loved him and yet….each time she was only ever met with heartbreak and betrayal.
The cool stone of the wall chilled her skin and soothed the rush of blood and adrenaline, drawing her back to reality. Her mind began to clear and she felt her pulse slow but the feelings did not cease. She missed him but yet she hated him. She understood why but couldn’t accept it. She was glad he was alright and yet….she wished he felt the same pain she felt. She felt a fool for loving a man who no longer loved her, who may never have loved her.
She turned, placing her hand against the stone wall and resting her forehead against the cool surface. Her free hand slipped within the pocket of her gown, feeling the paper of her next intended target and bumping against her blade. She clutched its hilt and drew it from its sheath, holding it a loaf for a moment, the silver reflecting her image back to her in the torch lit space. Two piercing emerald eyes stared back at her, the flames of the torches dancing in their reflection.
For the first time in months she no longer felt hollow, empty – rather amused, after all peace was boring, war was far more fulfilling.
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