A Queen Crying in the Dark

Viktor

Long, obtrusive fingers of midday sun were already stretching across the stone floor when Viktor awoke. He pushed himself up from the tangled blankets of his bed, but a heavy-lidded lethargy clung to him like a shroud. After he had washed and dressed in his customary dark attire, he was about to depart his chambers when a profound silence arrested him. He was struck by the room’s stark emptiness, a deafening quiet where the gentle cadence of another’s breathing should have been. Wasn't someone else supposed to be here?

Then, the memories of the preceding day flooded back in an unwelcome tide, bringing with them a hot, biting flicker of annoyance. Yes, he had married the girl out of necessity, a cold and calculated move in a much larger game. But that political reality did not alter the fact that they were now legally and formally bound.

His boot heels echoed with solitary importance as he strode across the vacant corridor and pushed open the door to the far more cheerful chamber he had assigned her. Natalia was there, deeply asleep and nestled in a cocoon of blankets. His first, cruel instinct was to be vicious—to seize a fistful of her dark hair and relish the startled cry that would shatter her peaceful slumber. Yet, as he loomed over the bed, something stayed his hand. It was an unfamiliar, almost forgotten sensation, a feeling that had visited him only rarely since the innocence of his boyhood had been stripped away. It was empathy.

He could see a map of her silent sorrow: the faint, silvery tracks of dried tears etched upon her cheeks. The sight extinguished the fire in his gut, replaced by a cool and foreign serenity. Instead of terrorizing her, he found himself retreating quietly from the room. He pulled the heavy door shut with a soft click and made his way down to the dining hall. The only sound in the cavernous space was the lonely clink of his fork against a porcelain plate as he sat at the head of the long, empty table and began his meal.

Markus entered a few moments later, his movements silent and efficient. He had been a constant, steady shadow at the King's side the night before, a presence of unwavering loyalty. Now, he brought news of his own, seeking to debrief his king. Seeing they were alone, Markus let the formality drop, his voice a low, familiar rumble.

"I must admit, Viktor, I'm surprised. I had expected to see our new Queen gracing us with her presence this morning," he remarked, raising a subtle eyebrow.

Viktor gestured to an empty chair with his fork. "Sit. Join me."

Markus obliged, taking a seat, though he made no move toward the food arrayed on the sideboard.

"I let her sleep," Viktor stated flatly, spearing a piece of cured meat.

The arch of Markus’s eyebrow rose higher. "How uncharacteristically generous of you. I presumed matrimonial duties might have… preoccupied you both." The insinuation was clear, coated in his typical layer of dry wit.

"I haven't so much as touched her," Viktor shot back, his tone clipped, "save for helping her from the carriage."

Markus leaned forward in feigned shock. "Who are you, and what have you done with the real Viktor? You never extend such leniency to anyone outside our immediate circle. Has a certain someone managed to thaw that frozen heart of yours?" he trailed off, a note of genuine disbelief in his voice. He had known Viktor for years, since they were boys chasing each other through the castle kitchens—Viktor a prince not yet burdened by prophecy, and Markus a humble scullion. He alone understood the brutal transformation of the boy he knew into the monarch he served. Had this foreign queen truly ensnared him so completely?

"Natalia is still an infuriating brat," Viktor clarified, though the words lacked their usual venom. "But she has become less… abrasive than she was at first. She has an insidious way of wearing a man down. Like a rain-drenched stray that follows you home, staring up at you with those big, pitiful eyes until you finally relent and let it in."

"Now I know something is wrong," Markus declared, springing to his feet and theatrically pressing the back of his hand to Viktor's forehead. "You spoke of her without sounding overtly murderous. No fever… Shall I fetch Isaak?"

"I'm fine," Viktor snapped, swatting his hand away.

Leaning back in his chair, Markus grinned. "Ah, there's the antisocial, merciless killer I know and serve." He teased, earning a smoldering glare from the king. Markus’s humor then faded, replaced by a sober gravity. "Your uncle, General Gathersword, sent a messenger. He arrives today."

"What?" The word was a low, snarling growl of pure vexation. "I thought his brief appearance last week would have sated his need to meddle in my affairs!" Viktor despised his uncle. The man was his late father’s confidant and his mother's brother-in-law. Since Viktor had… dealt with the previous king, the General had been a constant fixture, observing his every move with a silent, disapproving gaze.

"Yes, well, he claims he wishes to congratulate his nephew on the recent nuptials, to welcome his new niece, and to inquire, with all due respect, why his own wedding invitation appears to have been lost."

"Is there no way to send him away?" Viktor demanded.

"Not if you wish to remain on what little of his good side you still occupy, Viktor."

Just as Viktor was about to unleash a tirade against his uncle, a young maidservant scurried into the room. She was trembling so violently that Viktor half-expected her to dissolve into a puddle on the floor, her wide eyes filled with an almost comical terror.

"Well?" he prompted, his voice sharp with impatience.

"The… the Queen is outside the doors, Your Majesty," the maid stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Viktor and Markus exchanged a bewildered glance. "Then send her in," Viktor commanded brusquely.

"Her Highness… she does not wish to enter, Your Majesty. She asks if she might take her meal elsewhere."

Sensing a disturbance—or an imminent fainting spell—Markus gave the poor girl a dismissive nod. He glanced back at Viktor, whose face was a mask of profound irritation.

"And there she goes," Viktor muttered, pushing his plate aside. "Stubborn. Again. I swear the girl finds sport in defying me. She lives in some self-constructed fantasy where I am the archetypal villain and she, the perpetual damsel in distress."

Markus was tempted to point out that Viktor had, in fact, kidnapped her, manipulated her into a political marriage, and was not exactly the paragon of gentle behavior, but he prudently kept the thought to himself.

"It does follow a certain logic," Markus offered with tact. "Considering the events of her last visit to this room. She's from a remarkably peaceful world, did you not say? This hall was a slaughterhouse. For us, such scenes are unfortunately familiar, but it may have genuinely shattered her. It's likely what drove her and Morgan to attempt their escape."

Viktor heaved a deep sigh. Fantastic. His wife was traumatized. Why couldn't his supposed other half just bend to his will like all the other sycophantic women at court? And why must she be so infernally emotional? It was infuriating.

And yet, a deeper, more honest part of him knew that if they continued on this path, she would soon become one of the few people he considered an ally. Furthermore, he was certain—in a way that was both aggravating and fascinating—that he would not change her. It was… pleasant, knowing she wasn't scheming for his life, his throne, or his coffers. Her untempered empathy, while often an obstacle—like her absurd insistence on caring for the rat—was the very core of her being. She possessed a quality that was nearly mythical in his world: she felt the misery of others more keenly than her own. They didn't make humans like that anymore. They certainly hadn't made him that way.

Perhaps, for once, he could grant her a concession without condition.

Viktor stood, the scrape of his chair echoing in the hall. "Inform the staff," he instructed Markus, "the Queen and I will not be taking our meals in this room for the duration of our stay." He then strode from the hall with purpose to find Natalia waiting outside the doors.

She stood frozen, staring at the ornate carvings on the door as if she could see the monsters in the wood grain. She flinched when he emerged, but her eyes locked on his. They lacked their usual spark; she looked almost broken. No act of overt defiance could have unsettled Viktor more than that single image. He was accustomed to her fire, her spirit—not this fragile emptiness. He hated it. Hated the absence of that light in her eyes. It made him want to break something.

He had made the right decision. Without a word, he offered her his arm, leading her toward the kitchens, a part of the manor he could count on one hand the number of times he had entered. With every step they took away from that blood-soaked dining hall, he watched the fire in her eyes kindle just a little brighter.

He would have to arrange something else for his uncle's visit. Viktor would never conduct a matter of state with the General in the kitchens, but it was now clear that Natalia could never endure a meal in the dining hall. They would have to eat outside.