A Queen's Tale Read online

A Queen’s Tale

  A Shadows of Avalon short story

  By Justine Dee

  Copyright 2012 Justine Dee

  Prologue

  I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if we were not here, if the world were simply the place of the mortals that we walk amongst. It is a maudlin thought perhaps, but I have had a few drinks tonight and I am prone to the odd burst of emotion. My thoughts are turning to times that will come. It seems the wheels are turning and events are lining up that will lead to the future that my father foresaw. He is the leader of The Hunt; he knows when these shifts will come and the Hunt will ride again.

  He is not the only Hunt. It would be foolish to think that he was but he is amongst the few that still remain, that still ride. All the leaders of the Hunts are brothers of sorts, and all have family as my father does. I have been asked if I am immortal. Perhaps part of my spirit is but I age, though not as rapidly as a normal mortal would. I was born in the normal way, and, I assume, conceived the normal way too. But like any child, it is not something I ever asked my parents.

  My mother passed to the next world, or her next life, many years ago. My father wept over her body and I knew then that he had truly loved her; I was not born of some passing lust of a man who lives seemingly forever. It is comforting to know that, I think perhaps too few are conceived in love.

  There goes that emotionality of the night for me again.

  I have been reading tonight of what they say of my father, of the Hunt. There are many legends and none of them are entirely true. That is the nature of myth and legend; their purpose is not to be factual. There are always truths written into the tale and imaginings tied to the lesson.

  I am the daughter of the Underworld. I am designed for death. This might seem rather depressing but everyone dies, everything dies, and every soul must move on. There is actually great honour to be found in being among those chosen to lead souls on to the next step of their journey. Luckily, I am not one of those who must take a soul from the wheel completely and condemn them to nothingness; that would depress me. I simply move souls on. The only stipulation is that I deal in violent death, most often from war, and from all accounts my task has never been lacking in souls. My father has me to other tasks at the moment as we prepare for what is to come. I am special and not needed to herd most souls to death, as I said, I am a specialist, and while there is plenty of violence and war to be had in this world, most of it is not of the nature I deal with, the Hunt does not ride yet.

  I feel that maybe I have done this job before, maybe my soul returns to it now. I know this is not my first turn on the wheel, though so far I know of only one other life I have lived and that only in glimpses. I know enough to know that there are still lessons that I seem to need to learn. And perhaps there are souls that are still tied to me.

  Of course I speak of Lance. But then again I do not speak of him. I still don’t have the words to tell that part of my story, our story. Other than to say that I miss him more than words can really say and I can only hope one day to see him again. But I shan’t hold my breath. To see Lance again will most likely bring another soul into the equation and I have no desire to see him again yet. We only ever bring each other the fiercest of pain and anger.

  I seem to have shared more than I had planned. But that is the nature of alcohol; it helps loosen the tongue, free inhibition and remove filters. And Logan, my boss, has some very strong alcohol. This bottle was a gift for all the work I have been putting in since his father died, or should I say since his father was murdered. He didn’t need to gift me the bottle but he is a good man, as is his sister, well a good woman in her case. They both carry blood on their soul but it does not make them wicked for it. Good people are found to do bad things, and bad people can do good things. The world is not black and white, no matter how much mankind might try to label and box it as so.

  I talk like my father, it seems, when in my cups. Full of wisdom that I do not really have.

  My father will clip my ears for that crack when I see him next. He sleeps for the moment, he and the Hunt, they rest within their hill and wait for the horn to sound and be called. He speaks to me though, he visits my dreams. I visit his sleeping place. The stones that sit atop the hill are like old friends to me now. He sleeps often as the years pass; he is the only one of the hunt who rises at all when they do not ride.

  He has not risen since my mother died. I think her death took a part of him. I know he will move on from her, how could he not with the years that he will live, he will always carry her in his heart, but he will mourn her and live again. He must.

  It is hard to go on in the loss of love, I know, but one finds a way to do it. It does not mean that you forget or you cease to miss that person or even cease to love them. You think on them still. You feel the pain of their loss but somehow you live each day to its fullest, you learn to not hide from life, you learn not to hide from moments of happiness, or pain. No matter how dark that hollow in your heart remains without… him.

  I think I am most definitely drunk and I fear I will feel this in the morning.

  I think next time Logan wishes to gift me something I shall ask him to make it a scarf, or a book. I think alcohol is not the best idea for me; I am something of a lightweight to his excellent whisky. It is worse, I think, when you drink alone and I mostly do. Unless you count Puck, but he tends to stick to his milk and water. He did try some of my beer once but turned his little kitty nose up at it highly unimpressed, but he so often is unimpressed with silly human things.

  He was a gift from my father. I think perhaps he has something of the Tylwyth Teg in him for he is now nearing thirty years old and is still as spritely as he was at eight; no longer a kitten but still not an old and slow cat. He is my most constant companion as the acquaintances I make in the human world move on, or I move on from them to hide myself and hide my secret.

  I think, in time, more of my secret may be revealed. There is more to my employers, Logan, Izzy and Roen, than most and I do not think they shall age as normal mortals, and I know Roen suspects or sees there is more to me. I do not think I will be able to hide my secret indefinitely but I will ease them into it. In time I will bring them into my confidences and in time they will bring me into theirs. I am sure of it.

 

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