JUVEN
Her Bloodied Hands
by Imogen. L. Smiley
The queen was doomed to die.
Plague had swept the palace; each day, another handmaid, chaplain or stable-hand was falling ill, and being thrust into an infirmary that was lacking cots. Pallid skin and lethargy flooded the servants’ quarters, but the royal family hadn’t succumbed. For years, no matter what doctors were summoned to the palace, the servants were dropping like apples from the palace orchard. Many had said it was the will of God, blessing the king and his kin. She knew otherwise. But knowing how to remedy an empty heart would have had her burned at the stake. She was no witch, but this phenomenon was foreign here. She knew too much. This wasn’t her doing, but either way, she was going to end up dead.
She had known this was her fate since she disowned her stepdaughter, chased her from her bedchambers, lips still crimson from her accursed “sleepwalking”. Months of begging for an exorcism had fallen upon deaf ears and now her husband had perished at this monster’s hands. She never managed to get his blood from the lace of her nightgown.
She couldn’t recall when her step-daughter was replaced by this changeling, the one that roamed through the halls after dark. But, the girl, just a babe, barely blooming had been stunted, her father none-the-wiser. She was nearing her fourteenth birthday, but yet, she still had the frame of a pre-pubescent girl; frail birdlike arms and a chest so flat her heartbeat should have been visible under the bodice of her dresses.
The queen should have pierced the icy skin of the princess herself, been hung for treason, and granted passage to Eden. She should have bloodied her own hands, instead of entrusting the task to someone she believed to be capable. Why trust anyone but yourself for such a task; her champion had succumbed to the thrall of that creature. He returned with the heart of a deer, and that night slit his throat outside the chapel doors of the village at the castle’s drawbridge. It had been quite the spectacle.
Her kingdom had been struck with famine and illness for years; sour milk from the cattle, rotten harvests, and mysterious disappearances, but after the princess left, the plight worsened. Dozens of villagers that lived in the village of Castle’s Foot, were found lifeless and cold, the corpses impaled with pitchforks, fence posts, and even brooms. But their bodies were dry, there was no blood, and the corpses were wrinkled and prune-like, even the blacksmith’s youngest son who hadn’t even reached communion. The queen had visited this village herself, in mourning for the floods of massacred men, women and children, and as soon as her fingers touched the wounds of the innocent, she knew. It was her.
But where was she hiding during the daylight hours; the palace was filled with shade, the princess spending her days in the orchards when she still wallowed in the castle. But after she fled the grounds, despite her being the ever-present curse on Castle’s Foot, she still had to hide from the sun. She clearly had someone else under her spell. Perhaps the miners that lived on the outskirts of Castle’s Foot? Or the priest at the chapel where the hunter had ended his pathetic life? Would they have granted her sanctum?
She knew of these creatures, ones like the monster that had snatched the body of her step-daughter; they weren’t uncommon in her homeland. Her people called her vampires, but in her homeland, they often had dominion over whole regions before they were captured, tortured and killed by vigilantes that had somehow managed to survive. It was never up to the Lady of the land, or in her case, royalty, to take out the threat. Usually they sent armies, battalions armed to the teeth with silver arrows and wagons of supplies. She was just one woman.
She had nothing left. Without the princess, there was no heir, and she had no right to the throne if she remarried. The kingdom would inevitably be seized by nearby nations, and she would likely be killed by her neighbours. The queen was doomed to die.
But, she needed her stepdaughter’s heart. And this time, she would claw it out of her snow white chest herself.
Plague had swept the palace; each day, another handmaid, chaplain or stable-hand was falling ill, and being thrust into an infirmary that was lacking cots. Pallid skin and lethargy flooded the servants’ quarters, but the royal family hadn’t succumbed. For years, no matter what doctors were summoned to the palace, the servants were dropping like apples from the palace orchard. Many had said it was the will of God, blessing the king and his kin. She knew otherwise. But knowing how to remedy an empty heart would have had her burned at the stake. She was no witch, but this phenomenon was foreign here. She knew too much. This wasn’t her doing, but either way, she was going to end up dead.
She had known this was her fate since she disowned her stepdaughter, chased her from her bedchambers, lips still crimson from her accursed “sleepwalking”. Months of begging for an exorcism had fallen upon deaf ears and now her husband had perished at this monster’s hands. She never managed to get his blood from the lace of her nightgown.
She couldn’t recall when her step-daughter was replaced by this changeling, the one that roamed through the halls after dark. But, the girl, just a babe, barely blooming had been stunted, her father none-the-wiser. She was nearing her fourteenth birthday, but yet, she still had the frame of a pre-pubescent girl; frail birdlike arms and a chest so flat her heartbeat should have been visible under the bodice of her dresses.
The queen should have pierced the icy skin of the princess herself, been hung for treason, and granted passage to Eden. She should have bloodied her own hands, instead of entrusting the task to someone she believed to be capable. Why trust anyone but yourself for such a task; her champion had succumbed to the thrall of that creature. He returned with the heart of a deer, and that night slit his throat outside the chapel doors of the village at the castle’s drawbridge. It had been quite the spectacle.
Her kingdom had been struck with famine and illness for years; sour milk from the cattle, rotten harvests, and mysterious disappearances, but after the princess left, the plight worsened. Dozens of villagers that lived in the village of Castle’s Foot, were found lifeless and cold, the corpses impaled with pitchforks, fence posts, and even brooms. But their bodies were dry, there was no blood, and the corpses were wrinkled and prune-like, even the blacksmith’s youngest son who hadn’t even reached communion. The queen had visited this village herself, in mourning for the floods of massacred men, women and children, and as soon as her fingers touched the wounds of the innocent, she knew. It was her.
But where was she hiding during the daylight hours; the palace was filled with shade, the princess spending her days in the orchards when she still wallowed in the castle. But after she fled the grounds, despite her being the ever-present curse on Castle’s Foot, she still had to hide from the sun. She clearly had someone else under her spell. Perhaps the miners that lived on the outskirts of Castle’s Foot? Or the priest at the chapel where the hunter had ended his pathetic life? Would they have granted her sanctum?
She knew of these creatures, ones like the monster that had snatched the body of her step-daughter; they weren’t uncommon in her homeland. Her people called her vampires, but in her homeland, they often had dominion over whole regions before they were captured, tortured and killed by vigilantes that had somehow managed to survive. It was never up to the Lady of the land, or in her case, royalty, to take out the threat. Usually they sent armies, battalions armed to the teeth with silver arrows and wagons of supplies. She was just one woman.
She had nothing left. Without the princess, there was no heir, and she had no right to the throne if she remarried. The kingdom would inevitably be seized by nearby nations, and she would likely be killed by her neighbours. The queen was doomed to die.
But, she needed her stepdaughter’s heart. And this time, she would claw it out of her snow white chest herself.
Imogen. L. Smiley (she/her) is a twenty-three-year-old writer from Essex, UK. She has anxiety, depression, and an endless love of dogs. You can support her on Twitter and Instagram @Imogen_L_Smiley