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It was the dawn of the year’s autumnal equinox, and the sun showered her light through the pores of the canopy above. It was during this time that the usually distinct colours of the kingdom’s gardens began to freckle into shades of copper. The well-kempt flowers grew dormant, hoping to fall into the Land of Nod before they are encased in frost.
The time of harvest was soon, and so too was Tricolour’s annual Harvest Festival, for both were only days away, eagerly awaiting their formal preparations, though their kingdom’s leadership had enough faith in their Quartermasters that they would not be too overbearing in their reminders.
Seraphim was far from the sort of person who wished to get involved in such matters—spreadsheets were not quite her forte, after all. In fact, though today’s date was special, she, frankly, did not even want to be awake at this hour, and only did so at the behest of her Queen, whom she had felt so comfortable with at the time that she allowed her irritation to leak through when she responded. She had drawled out her “Ughh… fiiine…” and rolled her eyes in jest.
Now, however, it seemed that that very same warmth had dissipated from her very being. Perhaps she had only lost it recently, or perhaps she had lost it long ago, ever since that long-winded meeting with the rest of Pandora’s leadership that left her disillusioned with her kingdom’s ideals. She had been searching for it ever since—in her eyes, her arms, her legs, her heart, her blood, her brain, though everywhere she touched was cold, as if it had crystallised over her, a small fire hidden between the crevices of her labyrinthian self, quenched by an excess of phlegm she had found far too difficult to cough out.
So, Seraphim sat on a wooden bench in their castle garden, and watched as the sun climbed over the horizon—though she was not alone. Her Queen Jophiel perched herself beside a fruiting apple tree, golden wisps of hair catching the sunlight and dissolving into its radiance. Her curls followed the south-westerly path of the breeze. She was blindingly bright, like a parhelion, wrapped in an unapproachable light. She turned her head towards her Lady of Colour, and the corners of her lips tugged themselves upwards as she gave her a small, saintly smile. It was almost indiscernible through the glare of the sun, but Seraphim had recognised it, and so all the blood in her body rushed to her face, leaving her feeling faint and dizzy. She could feel the beating of her very own heart in her cheeks.
Anyone else may have described her gaze as soft, but to Seraphim, it was maddeningly intense. Like a sphere to a square, like God to a man, the ineffability of her being left her feeling splayed out and flayed open. A burning sensation stretched across and into her veins.
Her arms twitched as she involuntarily raised them outward, only to recoil back sharply. A part of her believed she was undeserving of experiencing such intimacy with what appeared to be a deity.
The Queen tilted her head slightly. “Seraphim,” she hesitated on her words, her lips parting occasionally, “Are you feeling well?”
Seraphim curled her fingers inward, into the dry skin of her palms, and resisted the urge to reach forward a second time. She could envision it clearly: her arms outstretched, her fingers wrapped around the delicate contour of a cervical vertebrae. Her monarch stared her down with dulled eyes, a contemplative expression set firmly on her face, which had turned slightly blue from the tightening grip. Calloused hands twisted the bones in place, and Seraphim would first await the distinctive snap of dislocation before letting go of her grasp to reveal dark, bruised skin. She shivered, gulping down the yellow bile that threatened to escape her.
“I’m alright,” she answered quietly, “Just… seasonal allergies.”
The Queen’s gaze faltered, and it was clear that she did not believe the excuse, though she was kind enough to not pry any further. “I see. Apologies for waking you so early, then.”
“I don’t mind.”
As she spoke, Seraphim could not ignore that awful, grotesque squelching. She looked up to see that a pointed stone had embedded itself into her lady’s skull. Brain matter spilled through the gap between her cranium and her lower jaw as her tongue sank into the back of her mouth, her smooth voice gurgling through the soft tissue. Blood pooled in her eyes, her nose, her lips, drip, drip, dripping down her chin and onto the golden grass below her, glistening in the rays of sunshine.
Seraphim blinked, and the scene shifted back—there was no blood, no spilled mass of gore, no corpse standing in a field, no ghoul stuck with her for the sole purpose of torment. Her Queen had her back towards her, humming a faint, barely-recognisable melody. Seraphim could not make it out through the buzzing in her head. The trees shielded her from the glare of the sun, which had climbed to a decently high point in the sky as it swirled from burnt sienna, to yellow ochre, to a radiant off-white only surpassed in lightness by the Queen herself. The surrounding foliage danced and swayed as they cupped them together; a romantic sort of scene—idyllic, were it not for Seraphim’s imagination boiling over.
The Queen coughed lightly, garnering her attention. “I have noticed something as of recent—” she started, glancing behind her briefly, “You seldom eat any meal outside of meats. I have not seen you eat even a single slice of bread! And… perhaps the full picture is just not available to me, but it would benefit you greatly to diversify, don’t you agree?"
Seraphim stared up at her with a faint upturn to her lips, pausing for a few seconds before chuckling. “Even my choice of food is not free from Queen Jophiel’s probing eyes, it seems.”
“A leader must be observant, after all,” she smiled, “But observations are not always the truth—I hope you are still taking good care of your health.”
“…I am. No need to worry, your Highness.”
To that, Jophiel’s eyes drifted back to the fruiting tree, inspecting it closely before raising her arm towards one she deemed fit to pick. She held the apple in her hand, its carmine skin waxy and firm under her touch, and tugged it off the branch, before turning and offering it to her lady with a smile.
“Here.”
Mindlessly, Seraphim took it from Jophiel’s hands. Their fingers did not even brush against each other, yet this action still sent sparks of electricity coursing through her veins. Her glance shifted between the fruit and Jophiel’s eyes—which she refrained from staring at for too long, lest she grow light-headed again.
“…For me?”
“Of course. Who else?”
She silently cursed herself for asking such a question. It was apparent that all the logical thought processes in her brain had been shut down and replaced by various states of fluster and embarrassment—a feat only Jophiel had managed to ever accomplish, it seemed. She cupped the polished apple in her palms, turning it in place, spotting faint blemishes on its crisp surface. It was almost brought to her lips, the skin of her teeth narrowly brushing against it, before she pushed it away from herself.
"My apologies, but... I can't," she sighed, “You are too generous, your Highness. Turning these into golden apples for the military would be much less wasteful, and—”
Her response was cut off by a soft palm on her lips.
“Nope! None of that.” Jophiel tutted, wearing a rare mischievous expression. “Royal decree, Seraphim. This is for you, and only you may have it.”
“I—” she stammered, stumbling over her own words as her mouth moved quicker than her mind, “Um… Okay. I—er, thank… you.”
Jophiel moved her hand away, and it took all of Seraphim's nerves to not lean further into her touch. It was a base desire that she was not willing to indulge in—not as if she could allow herself to, in the first place. Once more, she brought the fruit up to her mouth; and as she hesitantly bit into its firm flesh, exposing its pale interior, she experienced a slight lightness to her mind.