Morgan Rice - A Rule of Queens

He looked up and as he did, he watched the seven demons, black shadows in the distance merging with the twilight, spread out in seven directions, preparing to blanket the world. Finally, they disappeared from view. Thor heard the last of their screeching, and he wondered: What have I unleashed on the world?

Guwayne looked up at the sky as he flew through the air, through the clouds, feeling himself grasped in the gentle claws of a baby dragon, a baby like himself. The dragon’s screeching somehow comforted Guwayne, as it had for days. He felt he could fly like this forever.

Guwayne had lost all sense of time and place, his entire world this dragon, looking up at its belly, its chin, its jaws, mesmerized by its flapping wings, by the way its scales shimmered in the light. He felt he could soar with it forever, wherever it should take them.

Guwayne felt the dragon gradually diving downward, lower and lower, for the first time since he had lifted him up into the air. As they turned slightly, Guwayne saw the endless ocean spread out below.

The dragon flew lower and lower, through the clouds, and for the first time since they set out, Guwayne saw land: a lone small, circular island, surrounded by nothingness as far as the eye could see. The island rose out of the ocean, straight up, tall and vertical, surrounded by straight cliffs, like a geyser shooting up from the seas. At its top was a wide plateau of land, to which they dove.

The dragon screeched as they went lower and lower, and then finally, it slowed, flapping its wings as their speed reduced.

As the dragon nearly came to a stop, Guwayne looked down and cried as he saw the face of a stranger, a lone man standing there, in bright yellow robes, with a long, yellow beard, holding a gleaming, golden staff, a single diamond sparkling in its center. Guwayne did not cry out of fear—but out of love. Already, just seeing the man, he felt comforted.

The dragon came to a stop, flapping its wings, holding them still, as the man reached out and the dragon placed Guwayne gingerly in his arms.

The man held Guwayne gently in his arms, wrapping him in his cloak, and slowly, Guwayne stopped crying. He felt safe in this man’s arms, felt a tremendous power radiating off of him, and he sensed that he was more than just a man. The man had sparkling red eyes, and he stood up straight, and raised his staff to the heavens.

As he did, the world thundered.

The mysterious man held Guwayne tight, and as Guwayne looked into his eyes, he had a feeling that he would be here for a very, very long time.

Gwendolyn marched at the head of her huge convoy of people as dawn broke over the desert, leading them away from the village, toward the Great Waste. Kendrick, Steffen, Aberthol, Brandt, and Atme marched behind her, Krohn at her heels, as they all slowly wound their way out of the caves, up to the top of the mountains, and looked out west and north, toward a vast, empty desert.

As they reached the top, Gwendolyn paused for a moment and looked out at the purple and red sky, the first sun rising, the endless trek that lay ahead of them to a place that might not exist. She turned and glanced back at the village down below, in the opposite direction, all quiet and still in the early morning. Soon, she knew, the Empire would come. The village would be surrounded. They would all be wiped out.

Gwen turned and looked at her people, all that she had left of the Ring, these people who she loved so much. Not far from her stood Illepra, holding the baby girl Gwen had rescued from the dragon’s breath. The baby cried in the morning air, shattering the silence, and Gwen wondered: what have I saved this child’s life for if I do not protect it now ? Yet a conflicting thought arose immediately after: what is the purpose of this child’s life if it cannot be a life of valor?

Gwen had remained awake all night, tormented by her decision. The villagers had encouraged her to move on; her own people wanted her to move on. The time had come. She could not, in good conscience, lead her people to a sure death. That was not what Queens did.

Yet as Gwendolyn stood atop the cliff, looking out, something stirred inside her. Something was calling her. It was, she felt, her lineage, her ancestors, their blood pumping through her veins. The seven generations of MacGil Kings, she knew, were with her, whispering down into her ear. They would not let her walk away.

She had a duty and an obligation to her people, to guide them to safety. That was what it meant to rule as a Queen.

Yet a Queen, she realized, also had another obligation. For honor. For valor. To bring out the best in her people. To define who her people were. Even in the face of death—perhaps most of all in the face of death. That, after all, was when it mattered most.

Gwendolyn heard her father’s voice ringing in her ears:

One day you will be faced with a choice that torments you. Every part of your rational mind will pull you one way; yet your ideals will tug you another. That torment, that is what it is all about. That is when you will know what it means to rule as a Queen.

Gwen turned back and looked down, seeing the small village in the vast countryside below, watching all the villagers beginning to rise, to face the dawn, to face a certain death. They rose proudly. Fearlessly.

She looked up, and in the distance, on the horizon, like a storm brewing, she could already detect the Empire forces, stretched as far as the eye could see.

As she looked down one more time at the villagers, pondering her choice, feeling her people behind her, waiting here at this crossroads, she realized: yes, it is the duty of a Queen to shepherd her people; yet it is also her duty to shepherd their spirit. To embody their spirit. And the spirit of her people was to never run. To never back down. To never turn your back on those in need.

Safety meant nothing when it came at the price of someone else’s harm.

Gwendolyn faced the village, the horizon, the gathering Empire army, and she knew there was but one choice she could make:

“Turn our people around,” she commanded Kendrick.

Gwen turned and marched forward in the opposite direction, heading down the slope toward the village, toward the Empire army. She led her people, and she knew, as a shepherd knows its flock, that they would follow.

She knew they were marching to their deaths. Yet that mattered little now. Everyone died—but not everyone really lived.

What mattered most, she knew, was that they were marching to glory.

Darius stood with all his brothers and villagers as dawn broke over the village, Loti at his side, Dray at his heels, all the elders around him, and he looked out at the sight before him: there was the strength of the Empire, hundreds of soldiers returning, line up on zertas, facing them. The day of retribution had come.

Darius stood there, his back still raw, killing him, feeling hollowed out. Knowing what his village demanded of him, he hadn’t slept all night, tormented. He stood there now, bleary-eyed, knowing they demanded he give up Loti so his people could go on living.

But Darius knew that if he did that, if he did what they asked, then he himself could not go on living. Something inside him would be dead; something inside all of them would be dead. This, this self-preservation, might be the way of his elders, but it was not his way. It would never be his way.

The Empire commander came forth on his zerta, leading an entourage of a dozen soldiers, his hundreds of soldiers lined up in rows behind him in the early morning light, and he stopped but fifty feet away from Darius. He dismounted and walked forward in the dirt, his spurs jingling, heading right for Darius.