Page 1 of Of Skulls Of Shackles

ChapterOne

We are well aware by now…

Only immortal fools

Believe that seconds do not account

to days,

decades.

To eons.

Ablack hellebore stroked my stitched hand where I had rested it upon the arm of my copper throne. Hellebores were a cure of ancient insanity, and so I had a dire need of its stroking aid this night.

“I lament, I despair,” choked King Raise. He thudded to his knees before his princess. “I curl into a ball without you to greet my senses in my kingdom.”

Shewas occupied with distraught and gulping sobs.

Such was love.

Or the Raises’ version of love. They did not—how should I phrase it—raisemy hopes on matters of the heart.

My lips curved. Small wordplays must be enjoyed in immortality.

Princess Raise, quite fittingly, did not have a face, but the flood of salted water pouring off her chin region informed me of her tears. From whence they came was a mystery, but the princess could surely look, hear, taste, and sense in utterness despite her facelessness.

“M-my l-love.” She managed. “I-I cannot s-sign the amendment.” A high keening overtook her attempts to talk.

Princess Raise and I had struck a deal that she would help me in queendom if I could mend the broken love of her marriage. When I had made King Raise an offer to help resolve issues with his princess, I had envisioned a simple mediation that covered a secret motivation to figure out exactly how their union was warped. Two meetings had yielded naught on such figuring, and the first meeting had shown me that these mediations wouldreallybe a kind of conversational carousel.

The carousel went thus:I cannot sign the amendment. You must, my love, or I will lock you away. I cannot be locked away. I do not want to lock you away. Then do not! Then sign.

I cannot sign the amendment. You must, my love, or I will lock you away. I cannot be locked away. I do not want to lock you away. Then do not! Then sign.

And so forth, round and round the conversational carousel—sometimes with poetic sorrow and wracking sobs thrown in too.

Then, sometimes, I ventured to say, “Why not do away with the amendment entirely?”

I had not intended to speak aloud.

The Raises faced me, and their eerie blankness was a wonder to behold, for how perfect that creatures who never wished to give away any flicker and hint in negotiations should not have any features to speak of.

“There must be an amendment,” they snapped together.

Then the king, “And she must sign!”

Princess Raise clutched at the brim of her fedora hat, dragging down the sides. “I cannot sign the amendment, Queen Perantiqua.”

“You must, my love, or I will lock you away,” King Raise whispered.

They took up their mounts on the carousel again, and the hellebore quickened its stroking on my hand. Another hellebore rustled closer to lend its help.

I had endured enough for the night. This mediation must end, and though infant in queendom, I had risen in the cunning of how to end sobbing affairs.

Just on prearranged time, footsteps sounded outside the closed double doors of the throne room. Some feet struck the ground in a lumbering way that spoke of their great height. Other feet padded and were not feet at all, but paws. There were squelches of slime, and also the distinct grating of spears dragging on cobblestones—though the footsteps of those holding the spears were ever silent.

Relief was here.

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