“Excuse me?”
“There is much to be done, and the most important thing for you to remember is that the queen has one duty, one job.” He motions to the throne next to him. “Let’s see what you can accomplish… Sit.”
I grip my skirts so tightly that I leave wrinkles when my fingers unfurl. But I keep in my frustrations at the notion that I am merely here to exist like a doll. I’m too tired to argue. I can keep my mouth shut and look pretty for a while as the king holds audiences, or makes decrees, or watches jesters dance on their heads, or whatever it is that Elf Kings do.
The heels of my shoes clop loudly on the floor as I trudge over.
“Queens should float, not walk like a horse.” So he’s allowed to make remarks but I’m not? I tilt my head to the side, pressing my lips shut in a firm line. He smirks, understanding my silent game. “Good, I’ll take the horse. At least they’re silent.”
I whinny to spite him and I think I see his eye twitch.
I twirl, my skirts billowing around me as I stand before the redwood throne—my throne—and sit.
The second I am seated on the throne, I burn with invisible flames. Magic overcomes me for the second time in one day, scraping me raw. My vision tunnels, blurs, and then expands wider than I’d ever thought possible.
I see the roots of this throne—this tree—snaking down through eons of stone and mortar. They sink deep into the earth, penetrate the bedrock, and stretch into the very foundations of the land itself.
My head spins. I want to throw up. I try to scream. But I don’t think I move. At least, my body doesn’t move.
My mind continues to spread through the soil and rock. One root touches another. I’m in the trees of the city, then the barren forests far down below the castle. I feel the grasses in the fields, brittle and dry.
Dying. The world is dying.
Nurture. Life!every plant and animal cries out to me with a singular voice. Give it to us.
Give.
Give, give!
Their roots are in me, their wooden points pushing under my nails, into my abdomen, snaking up my throat. The world itself is groping for me and I am helpless to stop it.
The land is thirsty, and I am the rain. The beasts are hungry, and my flesh is their food.
Take. Take.
They will consume me, all of me, far too quickly.
I’m fading.
There’s not enough for me and for them. There’s not enough in this world. Everything is dying and screaming to me for help—a help I don’t know if I can give. I don’t know how to give.
Two hands wrench me free. The clutches of the earth curl away and shrivel, silently screaming in protest. Light returns to me. Eyes—my eyes—I can see again. But the world is hazy. Things are too bright and moving too quickly.
The world tilts and I tilt with it. Bile rises up my throat and splatters on the floor. It’s the first sound my ears can hear. Now I hear talking, cursing, feet moving.
“…get… Poppy will… No…stay…”
Stay.
Two strong arms are around me. They tighten as I shudder violently. I’m against something stable—more solid than the land itself.
“Saraphina.” The word is whispered to me by a familiar voice. No, it’s not a word. It’s a name. It’s my name. I don’t know how I know that, but nothing has ever resounded with more truth. “Saraphina,” the voice repeats, sinking deep into my soul. “Calm. Calm.”
Calm.
The word settles on my bones with an icy chill. It spreads across my body, not unfamiliar, but also not unwelcome this time.
Freeze me, I want to beg. Encase me in ice, in cold, in something that will make this horrible fire that burns underneath my skin vanish. Freeze me, or I may die.
“Saraphina, stay with me.”
I can’t oblige. The world fades to a cold blackness and I slip away.
But this time, there is no pain.