The Silver Rose

A fantasy short story.

Another morning of war rose with the mist weaving around the dark castle walls and touching the cold stone with its cool, moist lips. Black banners with silver roses embroidered on them stood proud gracing the castle towers; the silver threads shining like hope through the long years of war. The morning came painted in the grey hues of early winter overtaking the moorlands.

The bloodthirsty spirits of war demanded a sacrifice but when none was offered, their hungry teeth sunk deep into the land, draining it from the very memory of peaceful times. This morning another sacrifice on the altar of war awaited; a man accused of treason, and an executioner’s axe stood ready to prove the unfair nature of suspicions with all the sharpness of its blade.

“On your knees!” said the Queen, dressed in black. She enjoyed the mornings of the execution, the sight of her enemies kneeling before her drew a dark smile on her beautiful lips. The traitor had plotted a pathetic rebellion against her. Not the first time, and she had no doubt it won’t be the last. The Silver Rose was what they called the Queen, for she indeed possessed all the beauty of a rose, and the coldness of silver, even in her forty winters.

A nod of her head, a swing of the executioner’ s axe, and the traitor’s head rolled to the Queen’s feet. She smirked, and walked away from the courtyard, followed by her loyal knights.

“Lord Argente shall accompany me to the study,” she said, and with a short wave of her hand, the men nearly twice her size, bowed and marched away.

Long had the Queen fought for power, and her loyal protector and childhood friend Lord Argente had always kept her safe. Every dirty drop of blood shed to help her climb upon the throne laid heavily on the Lord’s conscience. Yet he was always by her side no matter how dark their path got.

The Queen’s study welcomed the two in its cold embrace; winters were unbearable in this old fortress among the moors. The Lord poked the embers in the large fireplace and put an oak log into the revived flames.

“They should be beheaded for freezing their Queen to death,” he murmured under his nose. The Queen smiled at the Noble man kneeling by the sooty fireplace to rekindle the flame.

“I have seen worse death threats than the cold, Argente,” she said. The Lord glanced back at her; his dearest friend was still beautiful, despite the first strands of silver gracing her chestnut hair. He returned her smile.

“The moors are to freeze tonight,” he said with his smile fading. “The Autumnians shall march across the frozen lands soon. A new winter, a new war.”

“This war has drained our land of all blood. You know it well, my friend,” the Queen said grimly, stepping closer toward Lord Argente.

“But we must fight nevertheless,” he replied, and got up. The flames roared in the fireplace.

“I…I might have found another solution,” the Queen said, casting her sight downward. Lord Argente frowned; it was unlike his Queen to hide her eyes.

“What is on your mind, My Lady?”

“I have no children, no heir to arrange a marriage with the Throne of Autumna. My own sacrifice would be worthless, I shall not jeopardise our independence by giving myself to an Autumnian heir, but…” the Queen looked into the Lord’s eyes, “the High King of Autumna has agreed to an alliance sealed with a Noble marriage. He has an unwed daughter of twenty summers.”

“Whom do you have in mind, my Lady? There are some youngsters among our men who might fit the noble cause.” Lord Argente gave her a sly grin.

“I have always admired your loyalty, Argente. But it has robbed you of your youth. A young wife might give those years back,” the Queen said cautiously, observing the Lord’s face.

He turned away swiftly, looking out the window. It was the darkest day of the year, the moors washed in grey rains, dark clouds pressing down upon the earth, the freezing-cold fog licking the moorlands with its frosty tongue. The Autumnians shall come to claim the blood of their best men after the swamp is frozen over.

“I do not want a wife,” the Lord grunted under his nose.

“This decision is not yours to make, Argente. Though I do not trust the High King, we must use this chance. I promised to give my Noblest man as a husband to the High King’s daughter.”

“I’ve served you with everything I had, have I not?!” He bellowed, turning toward her. “This you cannot ask of me. My heart is already taken.”

The Queen smirked.

“Who is she? Another Noble man’s wife? A whore? No sane woman could refuse your charms. She must be taken or blind! Who is this foolish slut?”

Lord Argente stepped toward the Queen, looking deep into her eyes.

“You,” he said coldly. The Queen’s eyes widened with surprise. Before she had said another word, the Lord grabbed her waist, held her close, and kissed her blood-red lips with the heat hotter than the flames in the fireplace. She stood unmoved; her lips remained cold to his touch. Lord Argente released her.

“You are, my Rose. Always have been. You never saw me as anything more than your shadow. But…” he pulled a silver dagger out his scabbard. A beautiful little thing it was, with a rose etched into its cold blade, a gift from the Queen to her dearest friend. “If you want to give my heart away, carve it out yourself.”

Lord Argente placed the dagger into the Queen’s hands. She stood stunned, no feelings her pale face revealed. Her eyes traced the lines on the Lord’s face, as if she’d never seen them before.

Seconds passed in deafening silence, until the Queen dropped the dagger at his feet, grabbed the Lord and pulled him close. Their lips met with the burning flame supressed beneath the ashes of years spent in cold restraint. The Queen melted in his arms, a rose robbed of its thorns, a flower blooming to the warm rays of the autumn sun.

***

“A new winter shall come with a new war,” the Queen said looking out the window. Lord Argente stood close, enveloping her from behind.

“A truly Noble man would’ve sacrificed his heart for his Kingdom,” Lord Argente said.

“A truly good Queen would sacrifice anything for her Kingdom,” she replied, “I have been a good Queen, have I not? But this sacrifice I cannot make.”

She turned toward him.

“I have always seen you, Argente, but I never dared to look closer. Now that I have, I cannot look away.”

“My Rose,” he whispered, holding her closer. They forgot about the silver in their hair; for in the kiss both found their lost youth.

The black banners with silver roses embroidered on them stood fluttering in the wind on the castle towers. A sacrifice denied to the spirits of war, though a blessing of love for some, turned into a curse for the land, washing it in long years of bloodshed to come.

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