A Kingdom of Hope and Torment

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Or at least, it seemed that way. The storm raged so fiercely and the wind blew with such force it seemed to change the flow of the current, sending waves of icy river water upstream towards the docks of the prosperous city of Illun. Though there weren’t many left manning the boats, there were enough to spread the tale of the strange phenomenon, a tale that circulated far and wide throughout the coming months.

The storm had been sudden. Chill but bright, the day had begun with clear skies and visibility far across the fertile plains to the northern mountains. As the people gathered in the square to mourn their king, a darkness spread, filling every bright corner and sinking their spirits even lower.

Like the storm, the King’s death had been unexpected, stealing him in the night while he lay by the side of his devoted Queen. It had given the citizens of Illun little time to prepare for the passing of such a beloved monarch. Nevertheless, the streets were filled with mourners and the square was decorated with flowers; a silent tribute to the man that had helped bring about a long-won peace to a war-ravaged kingdom.

As the darkness spread like a heavy cloak, black clad guards carried the great stone sarcophagus from the keep out onto the dais above the square. A hush came over the already subdued crowd, the silence its own sort of tribute. The Queen followed behind; wrung hands clasped in front of her small frame, twisting and grabbing eachother in a silent battle. If there was ever any doubt as to her love for her husband, they were surely put to rest now. With each step, her small, hiccupping breaths were wracked with sobs. As the wind picked up, her cries echoed off the great stone walls, lending an almost eerie sound to the already strange atmosphere.

As the rain began to fall in great, heavy drops, the Queen collapsed to her knees at the foot of the stone sarcophagus. Overcome with grief, she pounded her hands against the cold, wet stone and screamed. This was nothing like the soft sobs that had been matched by those of the onlooking crowd. Her scream was pure grief, pure anger, chilling the hearts of those that watched. Though they wished to, they could not look away.

Lightning split the sky and let loose a deluge of rain and wind. Despite the raging storm, no one moved, too caught up in the Queen’s immeasurable grief and their own shocked sadness. Though the citizens of Illun were accustomed to storms, living as they were, sandwiched between the sea and the mountains, the violence of this tempest began to shake even the most confident and respectful of mourners. It was as if the Queen’s anguish had opened the heavens themselves and the gods of old had answered, mingling their power with that of the earth and sky to create something that had never been experienced before.

In the months to come, the people would tell tales of this day, of the violent storm and the raging river that defied the laws of the earth, throwing wave after wave against the current. Of their grief-stricken Queen, shouting her anger and sadness, as if she owed nothing to the god of death. And yet, it was what happened next that they whispered about the most. Whispers that sent shivers down the spines of those who listened.

As the storm raged on, the people began to get restless. They had loved their King, and they loved their Queen, but even such love had limits. Not one soul was dry in the square, all soaked to the bone and shivering in the howling wind. They huddled together, muttering and sending furtive glances towards the dark and roiling sky, each clash of lightning causing them to jump in fright; as it was clear to all that this was no ordinary storm. Perhaps even worse off than the rest, the Queen sat on the exposed dais, her clothes plastered to her body and her dark, soaked hair whipping out behind her, only visible with each crack of lightning, the dark and chaotic wind making it hard to make out anything but vague shapes.

Just as it seemed the people could wait no more, longing to flee to the safety of their homes, the Queen rose. In her shaking hands she clasped the thick, gleaming sword of the King, raising it above her head. With one final agonizing scream, she brought the sword down on the stone. The crack of metal on stone combined with a flash of lightning, and the brief light afforded the shocked onlookers one last look at their Queen before she vanished into blackness, rain and wind, seemingly swallowed by the violent tempest.

Chaos erupted. Shouts and cries of panic, hardly to be heard over the booming thunder and pounding of feet, echoed off the walls. Most ran for the safety of their homes, while others franticly searched for the Queen.

In the turmoil that followed, no one noticed the haggard flight of a golden eagle as she struggled against the wind, haphazardly darting over the wall and out of sight.