I haven't written anything for about a year and a bit, so I apologise if this is a little rusty!

The cold, harsh light filtering through the windows in Amelie's office ought to make her aware of the fact that it's the day time, she'll be receiving her appointments shortly—but it doesn't. The whirring of the coffee machine in her assistant's office ought to make her consider changing her outfit, or at least making an effort to make it look as though she's done something other than sit at her desk throughout the night—but it doesn't.

The truth is, nothing can make Amelie do anything, because everything makes her feel anger.

Deep down inside, she knows that she loves her town—she wouldn't have fought her father so hard if he hadn't taken everything that was, is, precious to her away—but it's nothing to her right now. It may as well just be one of those settlements she allowed Myrnin to burn down in the early days of the French Revolution: it is unimportant, uninspiring, and above all, not hers.

Then again, is anything hers?

It's been three weeks and still her every thought is consumed by the red-haired man who she loved so much and yet did so little for. For the first time in her life, she allows herself to consider the question: what if?

What if she hadn't allowed him to join her resistance in the first place, and had brainwashed him into joining her father? What if she had made Oliver the sacrifice for her father, so that she could be in control, as she so desperately needed to be?

What if she had never turned Sam, so she never hurt him all those thousands of times in the fifty year period following his attempt to protect her?

It's a harsh thought, yet Amelie knows—or at least she thinks she knows—that all of the pain Sam felt is, was, because of her. If she had let him in, if she had allowed herself to trust him, perhaps everything would have been different. Perhaps everyone would be alive—or perhaps everyone would be dead.

But at least she would be with her Sam, together—forever.

A knock at the door startles Amelie more than she has been startled for fifty years—and yet she still does nothing about it. She cares nought for the assistant at the door who wants to make sure that the Founder hasn't gone to pieces because she still has a town to run, cares nought for whatever qualms will be brought before her today. Why should she care that a human wants to take an empty home in the most habitable location in Morganville? If anything, it's a problem for that Morrell mayor to sort, not herself.

The door opens, and still Amelie does nothing. She continues to stare at a fixed point in the wall, imagining the face of the man who consumes her. Already, she's concerned that she's begun to forget him; he's interred in the ground now, something no vampire has ever had the luxury of having in Morganville, but perhaps that's what is distorting her image of him. Perhaps all of the dirt and the creatures and the sorrow above him, blocking him from her—perhaps that is the reason for her inability to visualise him with a smile.

Or, just perhaps, the reason she cannot see him properly is because she never truly saw the real Samuel Glass.

"Ma'am?" Bizzie's voice is loud, much louder than Amelie has ever heard it, and it isn't until she processes this fact that Amelie realises her assistant has been calling her name for over five minutes. "Ma'am? Shall I call Dr. Goldman?"

Frustration is the weakest emotion Amelie can draw upon—after all, the only thing to bring her joy has perished because of her—and even that is more vicious than Bizzie is accustomed to seeing her ruler. "Pray tell your reasoning for my requirement of a doctor, Bizzie. For the last time I considered the situation, I am neither dead nor dying." She shakes her head in disgust, a huge, sweeping motion—nothing's delicate, not anymore. Anything delicate in her life breaks and dies, and leaves a gaping hole which cannot be replaced. Snorting, Amelie continues. "Leave, and actually do your job. I do not have the time to find a competent assistant at the moment."

The door opens and closes without Bizzie saying a word, yet Amelie can sense what she's thinking. The Founder isn't right, I ain't ever seen her like this before. George, we need to find…we need to help.

And yet nobody can do anything to help her. It is her fault that this has happened, and thus she must be the one to pay the price.

.

Amelie sees no one that day. She can hear Bizzie arguing with those who have booked appointments, yet she cannot muster the desire to intervene.

"But I booked this with the Founder the moment she returned to power!" One person complains, their tone growing more and more distressed. "I cannot wait a moment longer."

"Go through that door and you will regret the moment that the Founder gave you eternal life."

Time passes; Amelie's aware, however vaguely, of the fact that the colour of the light upon the wall changes from dull to relatively bright, to orange and purple streaked before, finally, returning to darkness. Darkness has always been her friend; it has allowed her to creep through the night without discovery, to elope and to run away, to visit and to…and to fall in love.

And then, suddenly, Amelie decides that she doesn't like the darkness anymore.

Perhaps she deserves to die.

No, she reconsiders. I deserve to die.

Suddenly, her desire for darkness disappears, and she craves nothing but the sweet, tender embrace of the man who offered her everything—and the man she abandoned.

Tomorrow, she will go into Founder's Square at midday and she will remain there until it is over.

.

At some point between dusk and dawn, the door bursts open, and a man—a vicious, violent soul—stands before her, his expression as cold as ice.

"Enough's enough, Amelie." His voice is as harsh as anything she could ever have expected—but when has it not been? She never did like Oliver Cromwell for his warmth and friendliness, did she? "You have mourned, and you have turned into a simpering, melancholic fool in the process."

She says nothing, and he takes a step closer; not once does she tear her eyes away from the projection of a man who no longer lives.

"I never thought I would say this, Amelie, but you have lost yourself. You are independent and strong; you have never needed another. Our history is proof of that, after all." Oliver pauses; this is never a good thing with her former arch-nemesis. Or second arch-nemesis, considering her father had never truly perished. "You threw him away with the rubbish fifty years ago for a reason; why mourn a love which ended before it ever truly began?"

This, this moronic, uneducated, clueless comment is what finally manages to draw Amelie away from the image she is projecting, and to look at another face. It has been nine days since she last looked at a face which did not belong to Samuel Glass—and she regrets the decision immediately.

Yet the anger takes over before she has chance to react, turning her usually icy blood hot with rage. It feels strange; gone are the days when she accepted her feelings and utilised her hotheadedness and immediate decision making to proceed forwards. For she felt that a ruler ought to be considerate and deliberate all that came before her; so she became the Ice Queen, feared but never revered.

Now, she's the Lord of Hell—a person she never ought to have stopped being.

"You dare speak to me as though you are a friend?" Her voice is low, uneven, and it's almost surprising that it even still works. "You, the man who has sought to steal everything from me, the man who made me realise that love is weakness—telling me that I am better alone? Is that so that it is easier for you to wear me down, Oliver, to make me weak so that you can try and take what is rightfully mine from me again? For that day will never occur, Oliver. It did not occur in England, it did not occur when you first arrived in Morganville, and it will not occur now. I am the Queen. I am not someone you can frighten or belittle—or defeat!"

Without realising it, Amelie finds herself standing, her position as regal as any textbook would suggest, her passion igniting feeling in every part of her body. It is only now that she feels alive.

For the past twenty one days, all she has felt is coldness and despair.

Now…now she feels like a queen.

Oliver smiles, yet says nothing: he doesn't need to. He's achieved his purpose in coming here, that much is clear.

He turns to walk away, and as he does, he mutters something. "Love is always weakness. You understood that then, and you understand that now."

.

Amelie will never forget Samuel Glass. The image of his face will be burned onto the back of her eyelids for the rest of her eternal life; never will the memory of holding his dying body in her arms lose the associated feeling of horror and despair.

But her town needs her.

She is the queen, and she will rule.

Love is weakness.

(Love is power, though she'll only realise this once she stops blaming herself for a death that was forecast the moment that she lay eyes on the man they call Samuel Glass.)