Butterfly Menagerie

The Silver Queen had seen better days. What once had been a smooth milky canvas of youth was beginning to sour. The lines of her face were not forged with laughter or joy, but from the cruel, callous sculptor of time.

Her pale green eyes had been politely staring at the crowd, her pupils so detached that one might have believed they were made of glass. Her dress, however, was obnoxiously present- a dazzling white sheath adorned with a collection of moon-coloured gems. I couldn’t help feel my chest tighten at the thought that perhaps one day, I may possess such beautiful things. Most of all, however, I wanted what lay delicately around her neck, shimmering softly in the late-afternoon sun.

It had been in their family for centuries. A thin, silver locket that was older than anyone that still walked the New World, older than the new waters and sands, perhaps even older than the first King. It was the embodiment of the Silver bloods, the muse of our monochrome sigil that decorated the bodies of only our most accomplished soldiers. And soon, once my beauty had been presented to the Silver Court, that symbol of splendour and innocence would lay upon my own eager collar.

The veil that disguised my face allowed me to observe the painfully bored patrons that comprised the esteemed Silver Court. To them, I was just another anonymous, pathetically desperate daughter of Iron who hoped and wished to be chosen as the next Silver Queen. Unbeknownst to them, each girl that had been paraded before them did not compare to the pure and effortless beauty I possessed. It was as if their features were too overworked- like they were the makings of copycat artists too insipid to create anything but imperfect replicas.

“Thirteenth daughter of Iron, you may now unveil and declare yourself to the Silver Court.”

I’m the thirteenth.

I couldn’t tell if the vomit lodged in my throat was the product of excitement or nerves. Eighteen years of eating the right foods, drinking the right drinks, of knowing what colours would flush my cheeks, what exercises would made me look the right kind of soft. All I had ever wanted was to be the most beautiful girl in the room, because that was what separated me from the bloodthirsty murderesses on the streets, the sharp-tongued whores one client away from destitution. It was what made me better than any of the other Iron-borne girls, it was what made me worthy of scrubbing my grey blood until it gleamed silver.

The Queen’s eyes focussed on my face as I lifted my veil. It was well known that a woman in possession of great beauty must learn how to hide it. It was not uncommon to hear of pretty girls whose eyes had been stolen from them as they slept, or whose hair had been cut cleanly from their scalp. I had often wondered whether it was the Queen herself, or those wishing to be in her place, whom had been behind those wicked atrocities.

The Silver Court sat in what I only hoped was stunned silence.

I had not been a child of impoverished birth. The Iron Father whom reigned over my realm had heard tales of my beautiful mother and had known I was destined to become the Silver Queen. I had not been allowed to roam past the Royal grounds, not had the chance to lay in the sun for fear my skin may age, not been given access to the knowledges afforded to my Iron Father’s many sons.

Like I had practised so many times before, I fluttered my eyelashes and pursed my lips shyly, ensuring that my doe-eyed appearance was both entrancing and believable. The King, who had been languidly splayed upon his silver throne, grinned approvingly. His eyes greedily looked over my modestly clothed body, unashamedly meeting my own a few moments later.

The rest of the ceremony felt both fleeting and painstakingly long, and I felt caught between impatience and a wild dread for what would come next. They hadn’t talked about this part of the ceremony in the history books (Not that I had been allowed to read any). They hadn’t talked about the anxiety that would arise from being hurried into a small, dark, little room. The other daughters of Iron looked just as nervous as I felt, it was as if in those moments we were not competitors, nor enemies, as if we all understood how heavy these chains of iron felt on our shoulders.

It was a dirty little room, contrasting the grandeur of the Silver Court. Dust and grime had settled cosily in-between the cracks in the tile, looking untouched and unbothered and peaceful.

My attention had turned to the little bug that had run across my feet moments earlier and was now waiting, contemplatively, beside my fingers. An ugly thing, with a hard brown shell and two wiry black antennae poking out of its head. I had always had a fascination for bugs, even the unpleasant ones. I was reminded of my seventh birthday, running around in the filth of my realm’s neglected royal gardens, chasing after a marmalade and black coloured winged insect. After trying and trying, eventually I had caught the wild thing, and had triumphantly trudged back inside. She was to be my own personal exhibition, perched on my modest windowsill, panicking ever so gracefully in that little glass jar. I had tried to care for her in the ways I knew how- leaving her little bits of dried fruit, decorating the floor of her room with sticks and leaves if ever she felt a little homesick. It was futile. No matter what I did, nor what I gave her, I could still see her fading. After only a few days in my carefully crafted menagerie, I found her lifeless. Her unmoving, shrunken form was still eerily beautiful in death. Why had she been made so beautiful if not to be observed? How had she, a creature of loveliness and elegance, given up so quickly when this rancid little beast besides me lived on?

The door flew open. I hadn’t realised how heavy the silence had felt until that moment. One of the announcers whom I recognised from the Silver Court stood dead-faced in the doorway. My heart thrummed in my chest, so loudly that I felt my cheeks flush from embarrassment.

“Thirteenth daughter. Please follow behind. The rest of you are dismissed.”

A moment passed, and it was only when the other girls began scuttling outside of the room that it sunk in. Before I could make myself sick, I moved my feet, one after the other, following the announcer down a dimly lit hall. It seemed that with each passing step the world became brighter, shinier, richer. I couldn’t help a smile creep onto my usually impassive face as we moved toward the destiny that had always been meant for me.

We weren’t inside the Silver court, like I had imagined. The Queen, in all of her icy beauty, did not face me. Instead, it was the King who addressed me. I had always thought he had looked more handsome in paintings, full of youth and courage and bravery. His portrait was not as charming up close.

“Congratulations are in order! Your divine beauty has been gifted to us from the Gods. You are a beacon of hope in our fruitless world.”

His words, although unfeeling, were lovely all the same. Each syllable warmed my ears, filling my body with the validation I had craved for so long. All I wanted to do was sing his praises, yet I knew I dare not speak. Not until I was told.

“Your acceptance as the Silver Queen relies on one simple test of devotion.”

The King’s eyes were harsher now, watching each breath I took, each move I made- a hunter and his prey.

“A test?” I blurted. I sounded so small. I cleared my throat.

“To ensure you are truly what the Gods willed you must prove that you will go to any means necessary to protect the Kingdom you represent.” The announcer spoke quickly, as if each sentence had been rehearsed beforehand.

I nodded. Any means. I would go to any means necessary.

The announcer reached to his side, pulling out a gun and handing it to me. The gun felt heavy and foreign in my hands. I looked around the room, praying that my instincts were wrong, that this test would be separate from the black lump of metal sitting in my shaking palms. I felt paralysed, my tongue frozen and forgotten between my trembling lips.

“Shoot him.”

The Queen still avoided my gaze, staring at the wall as if she were staring through a window instead. I had shot an animal before- once. I hadn’t given that animal a clean or dignified death; I hadn’t known what I was doing. All I remembered was how the bleeding wound had painted the snow a murky red.

I shook my head. No. No.

The King stood up, impatient with my divergence. He forced a smile onto his dry, cracking lips, and walked to where I stood unmoving. He smelt of liquor and sweat, wrapping his arms around me and fixing his hands on mine. Bile rose in my throat, and I swallowed it down with every lick of pride I had left.

“Don’t be scared. Pull the trigger. The God’s do not will him to live.”

The King’s breath was sour and reeking, hot on my cheek. I looked to where the announcer stood waiting, accepting the death he was apparently willed. What choice did I have? Did I believe my life was worth more than his?

I pulled the trigger, feeling self-hatred seep into every pore in my body as I accepted the decision I had made. I waited for the man to crumple before me, waited for that stench of metal to fill my nostrils.

A laugh broke the silence. An evil, bellowing laugh that filled the room with a surreal sort of sound. The announcer- the man I was supposed to have murdered- relaxed, his face full of not relief, but exhaustion. I dropped the bullet-less weapon, hearing it comedically clatter on the tiles.

“How does it feel to be the new Queen of the Silver Court?”

***

My presentation ceremony was a day later. I had been dressed in the finest gown I had ever laid eyes on. My hair had been brushed and decorated with pearls whiter than teeth, twisted and curled in a way that made me look ethereal. An angel of life to the poverty-stricken crowd I stood in front of, an angel of death to the man I had willed to the underground just a day before. The people, now my people, gazed at me adoringly through the wall of glass that separated us, but I couldn’t gaze back.

Instead, I was focussed on the woman I had spent so much of my life being envious of. The second most beautiful woman of the New World stood on the other side of the glass but did not focus on me. Instead, she had tilted her bare neck back and was basking her pale cheeks in the warm midday sun as she walked away from the Silver Court. No one must have noticed her slip out of the Royal Grounds. No one must have noticed when she traded her stone-covered gown for a simple blue dress, plainer than the clothes even the Iron daughters would wear. I watched her as she left, never once looking back, walking as slow as she pleased, as if she had all the time in the world. A butterfly fleeing her glass jar.

The silver locket that hung around my neck felt heavier somehow.