a rough drabble from what i’m working on, just a random thought i needed to get out of my head. not proofread or anything, i wrote this in like 15-30 minutes.
“We both know, this is well deserved,” she looked down at the man on his knees, hand folded in front of her and a stoic expression on her face. “My Lord.” The man gritted his teeth, he wanted nothing more than grab her and never let go. Her voice, god her voice. She could be the death of him -which was the case- she could take his breath and spit on his face as his eyes closed for eternity. She was a mere slave, before he made her his queen, now she was the woman standing in front of his kneeling form. Like a goddess he claimed her to be. The confidence of her, looking down at him as if he wasn’t higher than a bug, an insect to be chewed under her boots. At least that was what seemed to be from outside.
“Do it then, My Queen. Take my head, cut my throat, rip open my chest and compress my heart, it’s already yours. Do you think i would care to be killed by your hands? Your hands that i found the life, the love and a reason to exist, to live. I’m willing to take my punishment, My Queen. But only if it’s by your hands.” he glared at the hangman standing behind her, like a shadow of the promising, painless death. Her fists grabbed the sides of her dress, clenching her fists around the finest silk of the world. She couldn’t do it. How could she kill the only man valued her, loved her, showed her how to live? He was her everything. “My Queen.” the man shifted his weight, itching to get closer to his reason, to her. His broad shoulders stiffened, breathing was a chore when he wasn’t basking in his heaven, her scent. The thought of not having her in his arms with her hair suffocating him was the cruelest torture. His voice was a plea that solely she could understand, solely meant for her.
She wanted to run to him, give up on everything and be his. “No, My Lord. We shall finish it traditionally. A woman like me can’t take one’s life.” she hid behind the excuses of his people, his tradition. The queen needed to be pure. The hangman sharpened his blade, and the man growled. Like a wounded lion, but he was helpless against his cure, his lioness. The woman who hold his life and death between her cherry colored lips. He knew she tasted like cherries too. The most delicious ones. As the hangman stepped closer with his now sharpened blade, the king never broke eye contact with his wife. How could he still see her as his source of life when she was about be his death? It was her lure. He waited until the hangman placed the cold metal against his neck, it felt even colder when she just stared down at him. She had to stop him, why she wasn’t screaming for him to stop, why she wasn’t throwing insults and orders to the man who’s about to have her husband’s head?
She could see the look in his eyes, pleading at her to stop everything, yet his face was cold as ice. She crossed her arms over her chest, oh how graceful she was. In the inside she wanted to break her hands so they wouldn’t reach for him, like a puzzle trying to be complete. A emotion crossed in her gaze, he didn’t knew if it was pity, disgust or love. All of them were a piece to hold on for him, that was how desperate he was.
So the man’s eyes lit up at the opportunity, now or never, he thought as he rose from the cold, stone ground and grabbed the blade out of the shocked hangman, in a heartbeat the blade pierced through his heart and stopped beating after a few pitiful chocked gasps. Her scream filled the room and his bloody fingers gently shushed her by wrapping around her mouth. “You can’t kill The King that easily, my love. And only with one man?” he scoffed, his towering form swallowing her with his shadow as he leaned in. “Impossible, i would only die without a fight, if it’s from your hands.” he gently pulled her hand up to his lips, placing a ghost kiss and leaning his face against her soft palm. He could see her breathing shallowly, and only if he leaned closer he could feel her racing hearth.
